Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

it’s impossible to sing when you’re crying—there’s a lump like a plum stone lodged in your throat, and the music can’t get past it.

Time only blunts the pain of loss. It doesn’t erase it.

It isn’t annoying, her need—it isn’t a burden. It’s a privilege. I’m responsible. I chose to put myself in a situation where I’m responsible. Wanting to look after her, a small, dependent, vulnerable creature, is innate, and I don’t even have to think about it. It’s like breathing.