How Neil Gaiman Sets Up a Stunning Conclusion
How Neil Gaiman Sets Up a Stunning Conclusion
What Makes Great Writing #016 - Featuring Neil Gaiman's The Ocean at The End of the Lane
Children make wonderful narrators.
The stark racism in To Kill a Mockingbird is inescapable through the eyes of Scout, and the sheer agony of Bridge to Terabithia’s climax is devastating when told from the voice of Jess.
Naivety feels like a burden in the real world, but in literature, it's a gift.
So maybe it's no surprise that Neil Gaiman chose a young narrator to make his first stab at communicating feelings, in writing.
The story goes Neil’s wife, Amanda Palmer, was away making an album. Neil missed her, so he wrote a story she might like, as opposed to his normal fantasy work like American Gods or Sandman.
He wrote the first few pages of what would become a New York Times Bestseller: The Ocean at the End of the Lane.
Ocean is what Neil calls “a complete accident.” Most people just call it “brilliant.”
Today, we're looking at a passage that takes place toward the end of the book.
The main character (presumably Neil) has just been through a great battle. He and his friend Lettie Hempstock are retreating to the Hempstock's home.
This is a pretty long passage, but it's important to show where the scene begins, where it ends, and how it gets there.
(And, gentle reminder - if you don’t have the patience to READ paragraphs, you probably should not aspire to write them).
“You must be so hungry," said Lettie, and the moment was broken, and yes I was so hungry, and the hunger took my head and swallowed my lingering dreams.
There was a plate waiting for me at my place at the table in the farmhouse's huge kitchen. It was a portion of shepherds pie, with mashed potato a crusty brown on top, minced meat, and vegetables and gravy beneath it. I was scared of eating food outside my home, scared that I might want to leave food I did not like and be told off, or be forced to swallow it in minuscule portions until it was gone, as I was at school, but the food at the Hempstocks was always perfect. It did not scare me.”
Ginnie Hempstock was there bustling about in her apron, rounded and welcoming. I ate without talking, head down, shoveling the welcome food into my mouth. The woman and the girl spoke in low, urgent tones.
“ They will be here soon enough," said Lettie. "They aren't stupid. And they won't leave until they've taken the last bit of what they came here for."
Her mother (Ginnie) sniffed. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen fire. "Stuff and nonsense," she said. "They're all mouth, they are..."
Ginnie poured me a glass of water. "That's your own fault," she told Lettie. "You put up signals, and called them. Might as well have ran the dinner bell. Not surprising they all came."
"Fleas," said Ginnie, and she shook her head. "They’re like chickens who get out of the henhouse, and are so proud of themselves and so puffed out for being able to eat all the worms and beetles and caterpillars they want, but they never think about foxes. She started the custard cooking on the harbor, with a long wooden spoon and huge irritated movements. "Anyway, now we've got foxes. And we’ll send them all home, same as we did the last time they were sniffing around. We did it before, did we?"
I had slowed down now, and was making the final fragments of my shepherd's pie lasts as long as I could, pushing them around the plate slowly with my fork.
"I tried pushing them around," said Lettie Hempstock, matter of factly. "But I couldn't get any traction. I helped him with the dome of protection, but that wouldn't have lasted much longer. We're good here, obviously – nothing's coming into this farm without our say-so"
"In or out," said Ginnie. She removed my empty plate, replaced it with a bowl containing a steaming slice of spotted dick with thick yellow custard drizzled all over it.
I ate it with joy.
I do not miss childhood, but I missed the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I found joy in the things that made me happy.
The custard was sweet and creamy in my mouth, the dark swollen currents in the spotted dick were tangy in the cake-thick chewy blandness of the pudding, and perhaps I was going to die the night and perhaps I would never go home again, but it was a good dinner, and I had faith in Lettie Hempstock.
…now, let’s dig in.
“You must be so hungry," said Lettie, and the moment was broken, and yes I was so hungry, and the hunger took my head and swallowed my lingering dreams.
Throughout Ocean, Neil must maintain the illusion that a child is recalling this story. Deploying multiple conjunctions (“and" is used four times in one sentence) instead of a comma accomplishes that effect nicely.
Even with the kid language, though, there's an alliteration on "hunger took my head", and assonance on "lingering dreams," that your 7-year-old nephew wouldn't be cognizant of.
Hunger is also personified here - it's "taking" and "swallowing."
There was a plate waiting for me at my place at the table in the farmhouse's huge kitchen. It was a portion of shepherds pie, with mashed potato a crusty brown on top, minced meat, and vegetables and gravy beneath it. I was scared of eating food outside my home, scared that I might want to leave food I did not like and be told off, or be forced to swallow it in minuscule portions until it was gone, as I was at school, but the food at the Hempstocks was always perfect. It did not scare me.
The "kid language" continues here. All the sentences march forward in a straightforward structure: subject -> verb -> predicate.
Look at the subjects and verbs from each sentence:
"There was"
"It was"
"I was"
"It did."
Scattered throughout is a little assonance in that first sentence: "waiting...place...table..."
"Scare" is also repeated three times here, for emphasis.
Ginnie Hempstock was there bustling about in her apron, rounded and welcoming. I ate without talking, head down, shoveling the welcome food into my mouth. The woman and the girl spoke in low, urgent tones.
Here begins the contrast between what Neil (the child) is doing and what Ginnie and Lettie (the "adults") are doing.
Neil is gorging. The women are plotting.
This contrast between childhood and adulthood will set up the gut-wrenching paragraph at the end.
They will be here soon enough," said Lettie. "They aren't stupid. And they won't leave until they've taken the last bit of what they came here for."
Her mother (Ginnie) sniffed. Her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen fire. "Stuff and nonsense," she said. "They're all mouth, they are..."
Ginnie poured me a glass of water. "That's your own fault," she told Lettie. "You put up signals, and called them. Might as well have rang the dinner bell. Not surprising they all came."
At this point, we've seen Ginnie "bustle in her apron," her cheeks flushed from the "kitchen fire" (not just any old fire), and now she is pouring Neil water. She's also referencing a "dinner bell" (not just any old bell).
All of this characterizes her as the caretaker, the food-giver, even as she and Lettie are having an argument.
“Fleas," said Ginnie, and she shook her head. "They like chickens to get out of the house, and are so proud of themselves and so puffed out for being able to eat all the worms and beetles and caterpillars they want, but they never think about foxes. She started the custard cooking on the harbor, with a long wooden spoon and huge irritated movements. "Anyway, now we've got foxes. And we’ll send them all home, same as we did the last times they were sniffing around. We did it before, did we?"
The transferred epithet almost disappears here: "irritated movements." A movement can't really be "irritated" on its own, can it? Of course not. But our brain flips the adjective where it belongs - to Ginnie.
(Who is still providing food)
I had slowed down now, and was making the final fragments of my shepherd's pie last as long as I could, pushing them around the plate slowly with my fork.
Two alliterations as we flash back to Neil on the "final fragments," of his Shepherd's Pie. He's "pushing them around the plate."
“I tried pushing them around," said Lettie Hempstock, matter of factly. "But I couldn't get any traction. I helped him with the dome of protection, but that wouldn't have lasted much longer. We're good here, obviously – nothing's coming into this farm without our say-so"
The contrast is emphasized again here, subtly: Neil is pushing peas. Lettie is pushing literal creatures of oblivion.
"In or out," said Ginnie. She removed my empty plate, replaced it with a bowl containing a steaming slice of spotted dick with thick yellow custard drizzled all over it.
I ate it with joy.
Gosh.
After all these long, hypotaxic sentences, we've got a brief parataxis (a short sentence): “I ate it with joy.”
This is the crux of the scene, where Lettie and Ginnie seem to have made a decision, and Neil is still happily chewing away. This leads to the passage Goodreads loves to quote:
I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I found joy in the things that made me happy.
Notice the parallelism between "small things" and "greater things"
Notice the emphasis on what Neil “could not” control.”
Notice the repetition of the word “joy” after the last paragraph, cinched up by the perfect, childish phrase: “the things that made me happy.”
The custard was sweet and creamy in my mouth, the dark swollen currents in the spotted dick were tangy in the cake-thick chewy blandness of the pudding, and perhaps I was going to die the night and perhaps I would never go home again, but it was a good dinner, and I had faith in Lettie Hempstock.
This is a plot-based restatement of a plot-agnostic realization.
In other words - that last paragraph is the one you put on inspirational posters. It works without the rest of the book. This paragraph is the one you taste, the one that transitions you back to the story.
It’s also a final nail in this scene: where our narrator accepts both sides of this contrast between the lightheartedness of childhood and the gravity of adulthood by describing both his luscious dessert and his clear acceptance of what tragedy may come to pass.
A magnificent end to a wonderful scene in an unforgettable book.
Thanks, Neil, for the feelings.
Much love as always <3
-Todd B