A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

‘They say the best men are born out of their faults and that they often improve later on, more than if they’d never done anything wrong,’ she’d said gently.

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‘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 its imperfections. You get to know all the nooks and crannies. How to avoid getting the key caught in the lock when it’s cold outside. Which of the floorboards flex slightly when one steps on them or exactly how to open the wardrobe doors without their creaking. These are the little secrets that make it your home.’ Ove, of course, suspected that he represented the wardrobe door in the example. And from time to time he heard Sonja muttering that ‘sometimes I wonder if there’s anything to be done, when the whole foundations are wonky from the very start’ when she was angry with him. He knew very well what she was driving at.