Re-reading A Man Called Ove and more: Fredrik Backman's bittersweet tales of beautiful discomfort

If you picked up a Frederik Backman book, harbouring the belief it will fill you with hope and belief....you’re not quite wrong.

But you’re not completely right either. And that, is the messy magic of Backman. He doesn’t let you rest.

Just as he lulls you into a little bittersweet comfort—yes, bittersweet it would be, because pure, blissful, feel-good comfort doesn’t exist in our world, so it has no reason to exist in Backman’s—he changes track. Sometimes, in the middle of a chapter, sometimes at the end of it.

His words, sentences, ideas collide into each other, and he intends it that way, because as he keeps showing through his stories. Lives all run into each other in a breathless, exhaustive rush, and you need to keep up.

Reading Backman feels like walking in the middle of a dark forest, holding a lantern filled with warmth and light. You slowly grow used to the eerie sights and sounds, in fact, some even start feeling comforting to you. You walk a little carefully, because the path is jagged and rough along the way, and sometimes you stop dead, because you’ve almost walked into something. And that’s not just a plot twist. It could be something as complex as a despicable character, being so vividly human and real that you might just hate yourself for empathising just a little with them.

And Backman’s world is filled to the brim with such story arcs, characters and even towns that have personalities. And the beauty of his words are, that his canvas isn’t just broad strokes and splashes; each person, narration is so intricately detailed. You feel Ove, the bitter man, whose monochrome life was filled with colour by his wife Sonja, and when she left, she took the colour with her, quoting Backman. It’s not a novel trope or arc; it’s almost formulaic by this point.

But that’s the gift of writing: To make you feel as if you haven’t read it before. Sonja is never really dead throughout the novel, because to Ove, she isn’t…and yet she is. You feel her presence, as he imagines her chiding him about the radiators. You’re with them through their love story, and the ending that comes to soon before the book ends.  And so, Backman tugs you into the world of Ove, Sonja, the cat, Parvaneh and her husband.

What power must a writer possess to make a reader feel guilt?

But that’s what Backman does. And it’s not just with Ove. It’s with the Anxious People, which appears to be funny and sardonic dealing with a supposed robber holding people hostage, and yet as you turn each page, the laughter rings hollow, you just see unshed tears, and the un-sighed sighs. With his Beartown series, Backman creates a masterpiece of so many different broken worlds, that is held together by the frayed thread of a community.

The beginning of many stories revolves around a girl sexually assaulted by a star hockey player at a party. A legal case for sure ensues, but fracturing different families across a battered town. Maya’s emotions. Her best friend. The fraying relationship between her parents, and her father who can never let hockey go. The brother, who feels guilty for not protecting his sister: His devolvement into violence and cherishing it, while resenting himself.

Backman hurts with every word. And somehow, he helps you heal—from pain he didn’t even cause.. There’s a fresh, bitter realism about his stories. You can’t usually put it down, because you are now a part of it. You’re a helpless witness, but you’re also the cheerleader. You’re the silent shoulder to the characters, because that’s what Backman makes you feel.

Bittersweet comfort. That’s what Backman’s books feel like. Bittersweet, like a smile, but with tears too.