I’ve never been so keen on mystery novels. But there are, from time to time, exceptions. I just fell in love with the new and quite small novel by Neil Gaiman, The Ocean At The End Of The Lane. Written in a simple (deceptively simple) language. Rediscovering childhood. The hidden places and the loss. Always the loss. I’m not waiting for the cinema version, only a master could handle that. But if that happens, let Harold Budd write the soundtrack. No, he really needn’t do that. He has written it already. One can find it all in his „Buddbox“. Everything. The hidden places and the loss. Always the loss. And the yearning.
