Neil Gaiman’s ‘’Coraline’’ isn’t just a creepy children’s story — it’s a complex exploration of family dynamics and inner struggles that really hit home for anyone who’s ever felt let down by those meant to protect and nurture them. The novel uses the contrast between two sets of parental figures — the real, neglected family and the hyper-organized, manipulative “other” family — to show how control, neglect, and manipulation shape our sense of the truth and identity. This essay digs into how the real mother’s neglect, the real father’s passivity, and the twisted, controlling nature of the “other mother” affect Coraline’s journey while looking at what Coraline thinks about that mysterious hidden tunnel behind the wall and explore what the souls of the dead children might be really telling us about the losing of innocence as we grow through the phases of life.
One of the first things that hit me when reading ‘’Coraline’’ is how the real family is almost absent — even when they’re around. The real mother, busy and often emotionally distant, hardly seems to be there for Coraline. It’s not that she’s malicious, but her neglect leaves a big gap, forcing Coraline to yearn for attention and care elsewhere possible. Then there’s the real father — always good-natured and kind, but ultimately just a passive participant in their day-to-day life. He’s there in a routine, almost in a mechanical way that doesn’t quite fill the emotional void.
In stark contrast stands the “other mother.” This figure is all about control and organization. She’s the master planner, meticulously arranging Coraline’s life in the alternate world to create an illusion of perfection. But underneath that polished exterior lies a deeply dark manipulative force. The other mother’s charm is a trap, designed to draw Coraline in by offering exactly what she’s been missing: unwavering attention and a flawless, if oppressive, sense of order.
It’s striking how Gaiman sets up these parental roles. In the real world, the mother is expected to be the one who organizes and nurtures, yet here she’s largely absent. The father, while present, is almost just along for the ride — participating without really engaging on a deeper level with his daughter. In the other world, everything is upside down. The mother figure there isn’t just present; she’s all-consuming, trying to crawl into Coraline’s skin but making it while sugarcoating the parallel world she created as she pleased, to keep Coraline in her palms. She takes charge, controlling every detail of Coraline’s environment and behavior, leaving no room for Coraline’s own will or independence; but also doing it behind the curtains and leave her think that she is free to act the way she wants, like a puppet who doesn’t know that she is being held by the strings. This stark division between the organizer and the participant isn’t just a quirk — it speaks to a deeper anxiety about what happens when the people we count on for care become either too distant or too demanding.
Coraline’s inner life is the heart of the story. The neglect she experiences from her real parents leaves her feeling isolated and craving the kind of attention that the other world promises. At first, this allure is almost irresistible to act upon — here’s a place where someone is always ready to cater to your every need. But Coraline’s instincts kick in. She senses that something isn’t right with the other mother’s overly perfect world. There’s a gut-wrenching fear that, beneath the promise of love and care, lies a dangerous loss of identity.
This tension comes to a head when Coraline discovers the hidden tunnel behind the wall. The tunnel isn’t just an uncanny road to the other world — it’s a symbol of Coraline’s internal struggle between being here and there. It represents the dark, uncharted parts of her psyche where repressed fears and desires live. Her mixed feelings about the tunnel — a blend of inevitable curiosity and a deep-seated dread — mirror her conflict between the comfort of manipulated perfection and the painful truth of neglect.
Then there are the souls of the dead children, which add a deeper layer to this complex family dynamic. These lost souls represent everything that goes horribly wrong when one gives in to a facade of perfection. They’re a grim reminder of what happens when genuine relationships are replaced by manipulative control — a warning that the cost of abandoning one’s true self can be the complete erasure of individuality and spirit. Their tragic fate underscores the central message of the story: the pursuit of an ideal, controlled life, devoid of the messy reality of real love and attention, can lead to a profound loss of identity.
In ‘’Coraline’’, Gaiman shows us that family isn’t just about the people around us — it’s about the quality of care and the freedom we have to be ourselves. The real parents, with their apathy and passivity, inadvertently push Coraline toward an alternate world where an overbearing, manipulative mother figure tries to offer everything she dreamt about but never got. Yet, Coraline’s reactions, especially her wary fascination with the hidden tunnel, reveal a deeper truth: real self-discovery requires facing both the neglect of reality and the seductive danger of an illusion.
Ultimately, the souls of the dead children serve as a haunting reminder that the price of losing one’s identity in the quest for an unattainable ideal is too high to face the consequences. Coraline’s journey isn’t just about escaping a dreamy other world — it’s about reclaiming her true self from the shadows of neglect, control, and manipulation. And in doing so, she teaches us that while life might be senseless and cruel, it’s precisely worth living and experiencing; and that there is always a way out, from will and then.
Öykü Yavuz
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