A Man Called Ove

Predictably quaint, Fredrik Backman's A Man Called Ove is worth a read at least once in your life, and at worst will inspire you to check in on your neighbors, your grandparents, and the stray cat in your yard.

Robert Frost claimed that one of the most important rules of good writing is to be surprised in your own work; “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” For me, this is the only problem with A Man Called Ove—it is almost too predictable. The book was heartwarming and maybe even eye-opening, but it lacked an element of unpredictability that would have added to its candid charm.


Favorite passage:
[Chapter 30, pg. 305-06]

“‘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 were 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 for 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 them creaking. These are the little secrets that make it your home.'”