I recently reviewed Fredrik Backman’s splendid novel, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry. As is my curse and joy, I must read the
rest of the works by such a talented writer.
A Man Called Ove is every bit
as funny, sad, and wonderful. In the
queue for his works is, Brit-Marie, a
sequel to Grandmother, and the recently
published Beartown. The story is funny from the first page, and
after a few chapters, only the hard-hearted will not be touched to their
souls. Any reader would be well-advised
to add these four works to a favorites shelf.
Ove is actually Backman’s first novel, and what a debut story it is! Ove’s wife has died, and he is quite
distraught. He decides to commit suicide
to join her. But before he can carry out
this plan, everything in his house from top to bottom must be in perfect
order. All the appliances, the paint,
the door locks, all must all be perfect.
He has a slight case of OCD, as he tries every door knob with three
twists. He was the head of the local
housing council, but his constant reminders of the most minute details of
running the council eventually gets on everyone’s nerves, so he is fired. However, he continues his daily walks and
checks of the neighborhood. He becomes
particularly upset by strangers who drove in an area forbidden to cars or
parked a bicycle outside the shed. He
was also suspicious of strangers, salesmen, realtors, and children.
Backman writes, “It
was five to six in the morning when Ove and the cat met for the first
time. The cat instantly disliked Ove
exceedingly. The feeling was very much
reciprocated. // Ove had, as usual gotten up ten minutes earlier. He could not make head nor tail of people who
overslept and blamed it on the ‘alarm clock not ringing.’ Ove had never owned an alarm clock in his
entire life. He woke up at quarter to
six and that was when he got up. // Every morning for almost four decades they
had lived in this house, Ove put on the coffee percolator, using exactly the
same amount of coffee as on any other morning, and then drank a cup with his
wife. One measure for each cup, and one
extra for the pot—no more, no less.
People didn’t know how to do that anymore, brew some proper coffee. In the same way 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?” (5).
Ove also had a
romantic streak. Backman writes, “She
had a golden brooch pinned to her dress, in which the sunlight reflected
hypnotically through the train window.
It was half past six in the morning, Ove had just clocked off his shift
and was supposed to be taking the train home the other way. But then he saw her on the platform with all
her rich auburn hair and her blue eyes and all her effervescent laughter. And he got back on the outbound train. Of course, he didn’t quite know himself why
he was doing it. He had never been
spontaneous before in his life. But when
he saw her it was as if something malfunctioned” (128).
That is just enough
to whet your appetite—a stony, miserable, cantankerous old man, who deep down
does have a heart. I am certain Frederik
Backman’s A Man Called Ove will warm
your heart or, better yet, cause the running of a few tears. 5 Stars
Chiron, 8/24/17
No comments:
Post a Comment