Dear Mr. Neil Gaiman,
Good day good Sir!
I just finished reading you book a few hours ago while on the train. The little girl who sat facing me kept staring at the front cover art. Indeed, it draws one’s attention—the girl submerged in that dark water. She doesn’t look like she’s neither in trouble nor in need of help. And even when her face is turned away though not completely, the imagination can fill up that gap, it could clarify the expression. Then again, maybe not.
Maybe it escaped me totally so I tried reading the relevant parts again but didn’t find the answer, so I’m going to say it: I wonder whose funeral it was. It could be one of the parents. And if it was, my best guess is the father.
Now that’s been taken care of, it has been years since a book has affected me this much. I am certain that this is not the first time though I cannot remember when that was. But what I am sure of is that—during the time that I was reading the parts when Ursula infiltrated the house—I was inflicted with murderous thoughts that were directed at her. I was so angry that I was just a reader and I couldn’t help him. And yes, I am well aware that I have been deeply drawn in to a work of fiction. Yet for a good two chapters, I would’ve done almost anything to get her out of their lives.
You can tell I really hate Ursula, can’t you?
My love and pity goes out to the Hempstock family, especially Lettie. The uncertainty that was left to us leads to hope for the best for that girl—or whatever she really is.
Been loving your work, ever since I stumbled on The Graveyard Book.
Hope you write more moving masterpieces like this.