Fredrik Backman

Ove feels an instinctive skepticism towards all people taller than six feet; the blood can’t quite make it all the way up to the brain.

Ove doubts whether someone who can’t park a car properly should even be allowed to vote.

“It’s not natural rattling around the house on my own all day when you’re not here. It’s no way to live. That’s all I have to say.”

Ove’s wife sometimes jokes that the three worst words Ove knows in this life are “Batteries not included.”

He still finds it painfully difficult being the one to take charge of a conversation. That was always something she took care of.

Her friends couldn’t see why she woke up every morning and voluntarily decided to share the whole day with him. He couldn’t either.

“Ove, only a swine thinks size and strength are the same thing. Remember that.”

Then Mum died. And Dad grew even quieter. As if she took away with her the few words he’d possessed.

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

You miss the strangest things when you lose someone. Little things. Smiles. The way she turned over in her sleep. Even repainting a room for her.