He was by my side all week, and I laughed aloud as he attempted suicide. I know suicide isn’t funny, and I didn’t want him to die by his own hand, but every attempt was skittled in such ridiculous ways that I couldn’t help myself. Incompetence didn’t prevent his death, so it must have been a guardian angel. I believe his grudging kindness to others deserved to be rewarded, despite his unyielding beliefs, and perhaps that angel thought the same. Acknowledgement, however, was the last thing he looked for. His heart was always big, though hidden behind a curmudgeon exterior. But he was fair in everything, always.
Despite him being a stubborn man of principles, surrounded by annoying people who talked when he preferred to be left alone, he never turned his back on a problem. His view of life was uncomplicated and fearless, leaving no one in any doubt that his way was the right way. The only way.
Have I made him seem petty? I hope not because he lived in a world that had evolved without him being aware of its progress. He was too busy making sure his own part of the planet functioned in the way it always had. He gave competency and attention to the smallest detail. The bigger world was not his problem. His self-possessed approach made difficulties appear solvable, and people who didn’t recognise moral standards and loyalty he found incomprehensible.
For a week he dominated my thoughts. I couldn’t wait for moments I spent with him, and every moment was filled with laughter and delight. I loved this man until the moment he fell asleep and didn’t wake. And then came tears.
A Man Called Ove by Frederik Backman is a book of wonder and charm. And a joy to read.
Burnside Writers Group 