The House in the Cerulean Sea

The cover of T. J. Klune’s The House in the Cerulean Sea depicts a series of colors often associated with peace. The soft blues and greens of the earth and sky create a natural feeling, while the lone house on the seaside cliff encourages the inner desire for a country-quiet escape as it looms over a horizon warmed by dawn-bright yellows and soft, cloudy peaches.

Colors such as these are a two-fold invitation: 1) a calling to the reader to escape their current (potentially corporate) world and temporarily live in the wonderfully strange, contemporary fantasy world Klune has built, and 2) a symbolic representation of exactly what the book’s protagonist needs—that is, a little color in his life.

Lionel Baker’s character is not a common choice for a protagonist. He is a 40-year-old caseworker for the Department in Charge of Magic Youth (DICOMY), and he follows their rules like a nervous chef follows someone else’s boring recipe: He memorizes every step, he does not question those above him, and he makes safe, calculated choices that keep his life dull and gray.

The journey this character takes from beginning to end is charming and endearing, making Klune’s novel an instant classic and a heart-warming read, but it also contains heavy LGBTQ+ themes that will no doubt resonate with many modern readers. 

The story really begins with the inciting incident in Chapter 2, when Ms. Jenkins, “a dour woman” whom Linus “[doesn’t] dare cross” (17), informs him that he has been summoned to meet with Extremely Upper Management. It is in this early chapter that much is revealed about Linus: He is self-conscious about his extra weight, he lies to his superiors to keep them happy, and he is a coward, as he becomes incredibly nervous under pressure and thinks a little too much when authority figures overcrowd him. As he returns home, dreading the meeting scheduled for the following morning, a few other key details about him are shared. For starters, Linus has an “evil” cat named Calliope, and he has a nosy neighbor who informs us that he is “Not one for the ladies” (28), which suggests he is a lonely man with an interest in men. Linus’s home also reveals that he has a desire for a little color in his life, even if he doesn’t yet have the drive to obtain it; this can be seen in the sunflowers he grows in front of his house, which, at this point in the story, are doused with rain.

Before long, Linus finds himself traveling to Marsyas Island. His mission, which is highly classified, is to determine whether the magical children cared for by Arthur Parnassus at the orphanage there are, in fact, dangerous. Through numerous interactions, we learn that Linus’s preconceived notions of what magical children are and how they behave have been shaped by a world outside of his own experiences. As he gets to know Arthur and the strange children living on the island, he falls in love with them—their quirks and their honesty, their loyalty, and their kindness.

Arthur and the magical children change Linus, so much so that by the end of the book he is hardly the same man he was in the opening chapters. While he was always smart and attentive, he becomes brave as he finds the peace and happiness that were lacking in his life, bringing color and passion to what was once dull and meaningless.

Klune’s writing style is captivating from beginning to end. While the action is quiet compared to many other fantasy novels—and while the plot slows down as a result in some sections—subtle hints and emotionally driven writing encourage readers to keep the book open, if only to read one more chapter (it would be easy to read through this novel in one or two days). Klune sprinkles foreshadowing in masterful ways, reminding readers that there are unanswered questions, unexplored sections, and unrevealed secrets left to discover, such as in Chapter 12: “As [Linus] switched off the record player and began to turn in for the night, it never crossed his mind he’d forgotten to ask about the cellar door” (229). Stylistic choices like these often make readers forget that they are reading at all. In addition to the effects of foreshadowing, it is easy to forget one is reading dialogue and not experiencing it in-scene because it is that genuine and meaningful.

While Linus interacts with the children, for example, he often offers them advice. In Chapter 13, Lucy, the son of the devil—who is generally misunderstood as a result—confesses to Linus that he has nightmares, and Linus admits that he does, too: “It’s part of being alive, I think. But if you have bad dreams, you must remember they’re only that: dreams. You will always wake from them. And they will fade, eventually. I’ve found that waking from a bad dream brings a sense of relief unlike anything else in the world. It means that what you were seeing wasn’t real” (244-45). In moments like these, where Linus bonds with the children, a sense of understanding and patience often associated with fatherhood is evoked, and readers can take away something meaningful from the wisdom the character has to offer. It makes the characters and their situations relatable, but more than that, it allows readers to connect on a deeper level to a fictional story that holds the kind of truths people need to hear.

There are moments in the story that, while occasionally overly sentimental, will no doubt bring forth strong emotions in the reader. The story is rare in that regard—kind-hearted readers who are moved by powerful writing will no doubt shed a tear just as quickly as they will laugh out loud, especially those who have children or work with youth and find their antics endearing.

The sequel, Somewhere Beyond the Sea (2024), continues this pattern; it is equally well-written, emotionally driven, and engaging, though thematic messages become even less subtle as the story continues.