A MAN CALLED OVE
Death is a strange thing. People live their whole lives as if it does not exist, and yet it’s often one of the great motivations for living.
Some of us, in time, become so conscious of it that we live harder, more obstinately, with more fury.
Some need its constant presence to even be aware of its antithesis.
Others become so preoccupied with it that they go into the waiting room long before it has announced its arrival.
We fear it, yet most of us fear more than anything that it may take someone other than ourselves.
For the greatest fear of death is always that it will pass us by. And leave us there alone.
People had always said that Ove was “bitter.” But he wasn’t bloody bitter. He just didn’t go around grinning the whole time.
Did that mean one had to be treated like a criminal? Ove hardly thought so.
Something inside a man goes to pieces when he has to bury the only person who ever understood him.
There is no time to heal that sort of wound. And time is a curious thing. Most of us only live for the time that lies right ahead of us.
A few days, weeks, years. One of the most painful moments in a person’s life probably comes with the insight
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