A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

And she was color. All the color he had.

People said Ove saw the world in black and white. But she was color. All the color he had.

And Ove realized that he wanted to hear her talking about the things she loved for the rest of his life.

But if anyone had asked, he would have told them that he never lived before he met her. And not after either.

As if he sort of crumpled with a deep sigh and never really breathed properly again.

But sorrow is unreliable in that way. When people don’t share it there’s a good chance that it will drive them apart instead.

he was afraid that their chattering voices would drown out the memory of her voice.

oh so ouch

And then she left him alone in a world where he no longer understood the language.

bye this book is slowly tearing my heart apart

“Loving someone is like moving into a house,” Sonja used to say. “At first you fall in love with all the new things, amazed every morning that all this belongs to you, as if fearing that someone would suddenly come rushing in through the door to explain that a terrible mistake had been made, you weren’t actually supposed to live in a wonderful place like this. Then over the years the walls become weathered, the wood splinters here and there, and you start to love that house not so much because of all its perfection, but rather for its imperfections.