I think Neil Gaiman has found something truly special in writing "The Ocean at the End of the Lane." His work always has a touch of magic, but never before have I seen that same magic expounded tenfold and woven into the very fabric of a story. So much so, in fact, that at times I am overcome with emotion just reading the words. This glimpse of the Ocean, and the depth and all-knowing expanse which envelops our world and our universe, has left me deeply humbled. I'm honestly not sure that I've ever had a book touch me in the way that this one has. Beautiful does not even begin to describe the perfect moment of magic and enthrallment that Gaiman captured here.

It's one of those stories that you can tell needed to be told. Gaiman didn't tell this story; he was simply the door between this world and some other magical place. A vessel, if you will. It was deeply personal, and yet incredibly universal in a way that baffles me even now. This review doesn't make any sense, but I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I'm simply in awe, in shock, and in mourning for the journey that has passed. I've got a sense of wanderlust now, but all I want is to go back to that place, to the ocean at the end of the lane.