boarder like they know their own hayfields. It is clear to the Hempstocks that the boarder's suicide has unleashed a monster that is trying to "help" people with their financial problems.

It is worth noting that the neighbors have perfectly explainable financial problems. The adult reader would accept as common that husbands and wives would quarrel about their finances or that an old woman might hide all her money under her mattress. Yet, through the eyes of the boy—and according to the Hempstocks—there is something sinister behind it. Gaiman leaves room for all of these supernatural occurrences to be happening in the boy's imagination. Is it possible that all of the narrator's memories are just the stories that any child might create to comprehend his or her world?

Lettie, who has "been eleven for a very long time," is nevertheless the boy's friend. She is not just another adult who makes life happen to him. As such, they confront the monster hand-in-hand—but then the boy, for a split second, lets go of her hand to protect himself. In this split second, the eyeless monster grabs a foothold, very literally through the foot, in the boy's heart. The boy later berates himself for this self-protection, even though it is a completely natural reflex, which reveals how deeply afflicted his heart already is. The boy has spent so much time reacting to adults that he is ashamed of normal child behavior.

The waking world and the nightmare world collide as the monster enters the boy's house in the form of a nanny named Ursula Monkton. This beautiful nanny quickly takes control of the house, locks him in his room, lies to his parents about his behavior, and seduces his father—all in the course of two days. Not surprisingly, only the boy can see the horror of what is happening. Yet once again, however, the adult reader could see all these actions as the unfortunate but not uncommon work of an adult taking advantage of a confused child. Gaiman vividly depicts the profound feeling of powerlessness that a child feels in a world of adult power.

Ursula need not be a monster for the boy to fear her. She represents the destruction of everything he understands and holds dear: she has taken over his living space; she has turned his father against him; and she has broken up the unity of his father and mother. He cannot escape. It is not surprising that Ursula tells the boy that his heart is her gateway into his world. The very heart of everything the boy knows and trusts is turning into a nightmare around him, and nobody seems to notice.

The Hempstocks immediately notice Ursula, and they are not afraid of her. Granny Hempstock is almost indifferent to her, so much so that she calls her a flea. Old Mrs. Hempstock has been around long enough to see what things are and what things are not. She has the perspective of a true grown-up. As Lettie says, "Inside [adults] look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren't any grown-ups.… except for Granny of course." The boy cannot conceive of a world where big people are afraid just as he is afraid. But the Hempstocks, in defeating Ursula, help him see how things really are.

At one point in the battle with Ursula, the boy steps into the pond—or, according to Lettie, the ocean—and sees the world as Granny sees it: "I saw the world I had walked since my birth and I understood how fragile it was, that the reality I knew was a thin layer of icing on a great dark birthday cake writhing with grubs and nightmares and hunger." Thus even a little boy, who at the age of seven is wired to think that the world revolves around him, can glimpse that the world is bigger than a lonely birthday cake, bigger than a failed party, bigger than his parents' financial problems, and bigger than anything he can imagine. It is bigger, yes, but it is not less than a lonely birthday cake. This is an epiphany of growing up at its best.

It is not a coincidence that the Hempstocks are a source of revelation, because they are almost certainly representations of the divine. It is almost too easy to see parallels between the three women (Lettie Hempstock, Ginnie Hempstock, and Granny Hempstock) and aspects of the triple goddess of Celtic tradition—the maiden, the mother, and the crone. Granny seems to have existed forever. The younger ones are not born but begotten. The presence of evil never rattles them; it never causes them to hurry. In fact, they always insist that the boy eat before every move he makes, which may be reflective of Celtic hospitality and also faintly echoes the famous psalm, "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies." Indeed, all of the Hempstocks seem deeply concerned with the salvation of the neighborhood (if not the whole world), even to the point of deep personal sacrifice.

Apart from divine resonances, the novel attests to the deep power of friendship. For the sake of his friend Lettie, the boy displays a courage and self-control far beyond his years. He suffers deep shaming and criticism (whether imagined or real) from all members of his family, but most of all from himself. Yet he endures all for the sake of his friend. He is arguably the most adult member of his family.

In interviews, Gaiman has hinted that this is the most autobiographical of his works. Gaiman has given a small piece of himself, and the adult reader cannot help but feel how deeply personal this story is for the adult narrator of the tale. It is debatable that this personal account of childhood will strike a universal chord. Some readers may find themselves just staring at the duck pond, rather than fully immersed with the boy in the ocean of self-revelation. In particular, Gaiman's portrayal of the boy's parents may not resonate with all readers. It will undoubtedly resonate with a particular subset of readers who grew up with upper-middle class parents in the 1960s. However, this is a fairly particular subset. The boy's parents are absentee, unobservant, and nonchalant almost to the point of criminal negligence. Thankfully, there are many well-adjusted adults who can attest to much happier upbringings. This novel may not attest so much to unique experiences of childhood as much as it attests to Gaiman's unique life. The boy feels so lonely and estranged not simply because he is a child but because he is actually alone and estranged.

Even though the chord Gaiman strikes will resonate more painfully with some readers than with others, it is nevertheless a beautiful one. Most readers will find themselves deep into the novel before they realize they do not know the narrator's name. This too is a testament to Gaiman's genius. The story is so engrossing that some readers might miss the hero's name, yet upon reaching the end, each reader should realize that his or her own name fits nicely.

Review Sources

• Bankhead, Henry. Rev. of The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. Library Journal 1 June 2013: 97. Print.
• Byatt, A. S. Rev. of The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 3 July 2013. Web. 24 Jan. 2014.
• Gilsdorf, Ethan. Rev. of The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. Boston Globe. Boston Globe Media Partners, 29 June 2013. Web. 24 Jan. 2014.
• Percy, Benjamin. "It All Floods Back." Rev. of The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. New York Times 30 June 2013: BR14. Print.