The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman.
I didn’t like this book. There, I said it. I don’t have any notes, and I really don’t quite know how I feel about it. So let’s start there.
I know The Graveyard Book is distinguished with the Newbery Medal and the Carnegie Medal, but I find myself asking why. The prose was well written, I’ll give it that, but in the month since I finished I haven’t once thought about it nor can I remember much of the plot line. Which is why I get confused when many people say it’s their favorite spooky children’s book.
I want to stay on this topic for a moment, because I found it getting under my skin. I understand that everyone has different levels of spookiness and such, but I didn’t feel like The Graveyard Book was for kids. Between the dark, depressing atmosphere and the wandering story, it wasn’t my cup of tea. In fact, it’s not even my type of teahouse. Spooky stories are not my thing, but it wasn’t even the spookiness that threw me off, it was the deep depression that settled behind the words. It’s hard to describe, because every read is personal to you, and every reader is different. The Graveyard Book just wasn’t for me. I hadn’t come across a book I didn’t want to pick up in a while, so finishing this was a struggle, but it was for a book club, so I gave it my all.
In short, I’m not a reviewer—I’m a reader. As a reader, this book was heavy and sad and dim and bleak; but that is just my opinion. I don’t have much more to say on the topic.
Fare thee well,
The Literary Empress