Fredrik Backman

A time comes in every man’s life when he decides what sort of man he is are going to be. Whether he is the kind who lets other people tread on him, or not.

And then one morning he saw her. She had brown hair and blue eyes and red shoes and a big yellow clasp in her hair.
And then there was no more peace and quiet for Ove.

She just smiled, said that she loved books more than anything, and started telling him excitedly what each of the ones in her lap was about. And Ove realized that he wanted to hear her talking about the things she loved for the rest of his life.

Ove had never been asked how he lived before he met her. But if anyone had asked him, he would have answered that he didn’t.

Because this was what Ove had learned: if one didn’t have anything to say, one had to find something to ask. If there was one thing that made people forget to dislike one, it was when they were given the opportunity to talk about themselves.

Whatever some girlie in a yellow sweatshirt from the self-service warehouse has to say about it.

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

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.

To lose your family long before you’ve had time to create your own to replace it. It’s a very specific sort of loneliness.