Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

In every walk of life, I encounter people with underdeveloped social skills with alarming frequency.

wearing rather attractive white plastic clogs teamed with striking black-and-yellow-striped socks—her feet looked like big fat wasps. I made a mental note to ask her where she’d purchased them before we left.

“Your question was both reasonable and appropriate. My response, however, was not. I’m at a loss to explain it. Please accept my apologies if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.”

“Thank you for making me shiny.”

I suppose one of the reasons we’re all able to continue to exist for our allotted span in this green and blue vale of tears is that there is always, however remote it might seem, the possibility of change.

Grief is the price we pay for love, so they say. The price is far too high.

Raymond and I had agreed that we were pals now—then, it seemed, they were prepared to maintain contact, even if you were sad, or upset, or behaving in very challenging ways. This was something of a revelation.

A woman who knew her own mind and scorned the conventions of polite society. We were going to get along just fine.

“Glen? That’s a boy’s name, surely?” I thought about all of those red labels, all those empty bottles. “She’s named after an old friend,” I said.

Sometimes, after counseling sessions, I desperately wanted to buy vodka, lots of it, take it home and drink it down, but in the end I never did. I couldn’t, for lots of reasons, one of which was that if I wasn’t fit to, then who would feed Glen? She isn’t able to take care of herself. She needs me.

How do I fix me?” Dr. Temple put down her pen and spoke firmly but gently. “You’re doing it already, Eleanor. You’re braver and stronger than you give yourself credit for. Keep going.”

She only really enjoyed her own company. She tolerated mine, but fundamentally she was a recluse at heart, like J. D. Salinger or the Unabomber.