A Man Called Ove: A Novel

Death is a strange thing. People live their whole lives as if it does not exist, and yet it’s often one of the great motivations for living.

People didn’t know how to do that anymore, brew some proper coffee. In the same way as nowadays nobody could write with a pen. Because now it was all computers and espresso machines. And where was the world going if people couldn’t even write or brew a pot of coffee?

And she fought for what was good. For the children she never had. And Ove fought for her.

You miss the strangest things when you lose someone. Little things. Smiles.

Ove just wants to die in peace. Is that really too much to ask?

That was the first time he’d laughed since his father’s death.

And life was never again the same.

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

But he stopped being happy. He wasn’t happy for several years after that.

He was a man of black and white.

And she was color. All the color he had.

He built her a bookshelf and she filled it with books by people who wrote page after page about their feelings.

What was the value of a man?