A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

When they went home that night, he put his arm round Ove’s shoulders and said: ‘Ove, only a swine thinks size and strength are the same thing. Remember that.’ And Ove never forgot it.

This was a world where one became outdated before one’s time was up. An entire country standing up and applauding the fact that no one was capable of doing anything properly any more. The unreserved celebration of mediocrity.

He never understood why she chose him. She only loved abstract things like music and books and strange words. Ove was a man entirely filled with tangible things. He liked screwdrivers and oil filters. He went through life with his hands firmly shoved into his pockets. She danced.

People can say whatever they like about you, Ove. But you’re the strangest superhero I ever heard about.’

‘You’re the funniest thing she knows. That’s why she always draws you in colour,’

Men like Ove and Rune were from a generation in which one was what one did, not what one talked about.

But we are always optimists when it comes to time, we think there will be time to do things with other people. And time to say things to them.

‘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

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.’