He yells at stray animals and rebukes teens putting their bikes away improperly. He can’t navigate his way through an Apple store without causing an altercation. Why is he so angry? Can’t he give someone a break? He’s overbearing. As readers, we start to distance ourselves from the main character he’s unlikable. The book starts out clearly enough: Ove is fifty-nine. He’s not the first character you’d pick to cry over. There’s the hook meticulously installed in his ceiling waiting for its debut so Ove can join his wife.
He’s grumpy, a recluse, and only wants to be left alone to die.
The novel follows Ove as he attempts to end his own life after his wife’s death. I didn’t expect to be so moved by it it is after all, the story of an angry old man in an ordinary neighborhood trying to kill himself. This summer, I sat on a beach on a two-day getaway with my husband and blinked back tears reading the New York Times best-selling novel, A Man Called Ove.
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