As if that was a way of concluding a discussion: checking who knew more long words.
Ove wanted what was right to be right, and what was wrong to be wrong.
He knew very well that some people thought he was nothing but a grumpy old sod without any faith in people.
But, to put it bluntly, that was because people had never given him reason to see it another way.
Because a time comes in every man’s life when he decides what sort of man he’s going to be: the kind who lets other people walk all over him, or not.
Ove slept in the Saab the nights after the fire. The first morning he tried to clear up among the ashes and destruction.
The second morning he had to accept that this would never sort itself out. The house was lost, and all the work he had put into it.
On the third morning two men, wearing the same kind of white shirt as that chief fireman, turned up.
They stood by his gate, apparently quite unmoved by the ruin in front of them.
They didn’t present themselves by name, only mentioned the name of the authority they came from.
As if they were robots sent out by the mother ship.
“We’ve been sending you letters,” said one of the white shirts, holding out a pile of documents for Ove.
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