My Friends

by Fredrik Backman

Grown men don’t have enough things they’re afraid of on this planet to become good at running.

They were sweating so much that if they went for a swim, the sea ended up saltier, they were so hot that if they burned themselves on a cigarette, the cigarette would scream. And they laughed, dear God, how they laughed, because it was that sort of summer. Their last one together.

He didn’t want to prove to the world how good the artist was, he wanted to prove it to the artist himself. Joar was good at mending engines, because in them he could always see what was broken, but humans are full of crap you can’t see. We break in the invisible parts. So Joar didn’t know how to say that he loved the artist, and instead he roared: “Just paint! Just win that fucking competition!”

That’s all of life. All we can hope for. You mustn’t think about the fact that it might end, because then you live like a coward, you never love too much or sing too loudly. You have to take it for granted, the artist thinks, the whole thing: sunrises and slow Sunday mornings and water balloons and another person’s breath against your neck. That’s the only courageous thing a person can do.

You don’t wish for happiness when you have lost the love of your life, because you can’t even imagine ever feeling happy again. All you wish for is peace, calm, a long night’s sleep.

It’s hard to say “I love you” when you’re fourteen years old. And completely impossible to dare to whisper: “Don’t hurt yourself, because you’d be hurting me too.”

But how do I explain that I’m freezing to death if I’m not seen by you?

It’s the job of fourteen-year-olds not to be great at things, the only expectation they have to live up to is to be morons, they’re put on this earth so their moms and dads will support the headache-pill industry. It really, really isn’t the job of fourteen-year-olds to be geniuses.

He refused to eat cilantro because some people love cilantro and some think it tastes of soap. It didn’t taste like soap to Joar, he just refused to eat something that was so damn unfair.

“Maybe Joar was bigger in the painting because that’s how you saw him. Fish felt big to me, even though I was much taller. People think it’s bad if someone makes you feel small, but it really isn’t.”

Being a parent is so strange, all our children’s pain belongs to us, but so does their joy.

Ted doesn’t respond, and she takes that as a sign that he’s definitely interested in hearing more.

“There was an old woman, one of those rich assholes at the auction, who shouted that I was a cockroach when I got thrown out. But cockroaches are survivors. That woman is going to die in her ugly summer house, but the cockroaches will live on.”

“I remember thinking that she was a perfect person. For a while. But then I saw her swim, and it passed. She used to swim like an octopus with a cramp…”

So while his friends lay on the floor, so close together that only dreams could fit between their bodies, Ted read out some of his favorites:

Spider-Man’s “With great power comes great responsibility.” The Flash’s “Life doesn’t give us purpose. We give life purpose.” Wonder Woman’s “Which will hold greater rule over you? Your fear or your curiosity?” Then he thought for a little while, searching his memory for the words, before he came out with Iron Man’s “Heroes are made by the paths they choose.”

Beta Ray Bill: “If there is nothing but what we make in this world, brothers, let us make good.”

“But I don’t think the most important thing for an artist is being able to draw, but having something to say,” he says, more to the sky than to her.

“No. No one teaches anyone to paint, all we learn are rules and limitations, what we aren’t supposed to do. I went to art school, but I was lucky, I got thrown out before they had time to teach me anything.”

“Why did you get thrown out?” the boy asked. “They didn’t like what I was painting on.” “What were you painting on?” “Drugs.”

We’re not allowed to die for our children, the universe won’t let us, because then there wouldn’t be any mothers left.

She knew he was living too fast, he was running out of time, but it was like trying to stop sunshine.

He didn’t actually want to be given an explanation of how Christian had died. He wanted an explanation of how he could be dead. Because that was impossible. No one can be so alive, and then not.

Every time I think of that night, it feels like it lasted a whole winter. It was like we gathered up a hundred days of memories all at once. If I lay them all out, I think I’ve got enough to make a happy childhood…”

“Have many people you’ve loved died?” she asks, out of nowhere. “Yes.” “I’ve been lucky, really,” she says. “How do you mean?” “I haven’t loved many people.”

“You can’t trust them, have you ever seen the floor of a men’s bathroom? And those creatures are actually allowed to make political decisions? And drive cars? Do we really want to put people who can’t even piss straight in charge of all the horsepower in the world? We shouldn’t even put them in charge of one horse!”

The only bad thing about Fish was that she was terrible in the morning, because she always woke up happy, and that’s a complete misunderstanding of what a morning is.

“Isn’t it like, totally unbelievable that we even exist? So it won’t be a tragedy when we don’t exist anymore! It’s just cool, really cool, that we happened at all.”

People who have never been beaten up don’t understand the recklessness demanded of the person doing the beating, what must be missing from someone like that, or what happens inside the person getting beaten.

“It suits you, that laugh. I’m glad they didn’t manage to take it from you.” “Who?” “All the people who have tried.”

“Backing off, backing off. But if hiding, I’m just saying, maybe hide with a more agile friend than your friend in there, yes? Saw him limping from the tracks from a mile away, I did. As agile as a fridge, that one.”

“Scared? Scared of me? I’m old, very old. Dangerous as a meatball, I am.”

Once he read a book that said that people with neuropsychiatric disorders need to “make friends with their brain,” but Ted and Ted’s brain are not friends, they’re classmates, forced to do a group assignment called “life” together. And it’s not going great.

“Secret? You know, everyone ask: What’s the secret? Do you know? Holding hand!” the taxi driver nods. “Holding hand?” Louisa repeats. “Everyone say: Don’t go to bed angry! But you know, if you hold hand, very hard to be angry for long, you know? So you hold hand, when you go for walk, when you watch TV. You hold hand, so you know: You and me. Always.”

“Other thing, important! In restaurant, he orders food I like, always. Halfway through meal, we swap plates. You understand? You must live with each other, not only alongside each other.”

And Albert! A person needs to keep something alive, you understand? Otherwise: we are not people.”

“Then what’s the point in even trying?” The taxi driver shrugs her shoulders. “Next station: lost and found. Maybe someone leave what you lost there?” “I doubt it, it’s very valuable,” Ted says disconsolately. The taxi driver shrugs again. “Maybe people surprise you? What to do without hope? Eh? Come on, I drive you!”

that he and Mom weren’t like two magnets. They were like two colors. Once they were mixed together, there was no way of separating them.”

The world is full of miracles, but none greater than how far a young person can be carried by someone else’s belief in them.

It’s a funny thing. The person we fall in love with, we hardly ever call by their name. Because it’s somehow just so obvious that it’s you I’m talking to, that it’s you I’m always thinking of. Who else?

But he kept coming to visit me, the whole damn time, even though I was drunk and told him to go to Hell. He’s bad at that, Ted is, he really can’t go to Hell…” “He doesn’t like traveling,” Louisa says.

I was pleased to hear that it’s hanging in a museum now. Some works of art shouldn’t be owned by anyone. They should belong to everyone.”