Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I've only read a couple Neil Gaimans, and I always have the same reaction: I'm interested in the characters, but none of them is particularly appealing or sympathetic. It's hard to explain, but it's like my amygdala ceases to function when I read Gaiman and I have no emotional attachment to the people in his stories. I have therefore only an intellectual involvement, so I tend to avoid him. But when I heard there was a Newberry Award winner about a boy growing up in a graveyard I couldn't resist, because I grew up playing in a graveyard behind my house in Stewartstown PA.
I enjoyed the book, and thought it had some fine and clever moments, but once again I was more interested than truly involved. I couldn't have cared one way or another if the fates of the characters had been tragically different. Bod Owens can't hold a candle to the likes of Wilbur or that girl in Island of the Blue Dolphins.