The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

I am reminded that there is a difference between finding a book compelling and actually LIKING it. The whole thing feels extremely Gaiman to me, in a way I can't quite put my finger on. And Gaiman tends as a whole to just not quite work for me. Oh, he's certainly a talented writer, but I just can't love the guy's books the way so many people do. And I don't hate them either, as many other people apparently do. He's just kind of eternally in a place of "I see what you're doing but ehhhh."

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