Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

There have been times when I felt that I might die of loneliness. People sometimes say they might die of boredom, that they're dying for a cup of tea, but for me, dying of loneliness is not hyperbole. When I feel like that, my head drops and my shoulders slump and I ache, I physically ache, for human contact–I truly feel that I might tumble to the ground and pass away if someone doesn't hold me, touch me. I don't mean a lover–this recent madness aside, I had long since given up on any notion that another person might love me that way– but simply as a human being. The scalp massage at the hairdressers, the flu jab I had last winter–the only time I experience touch is from people whom I am paying, and they are almost always wearing disposable gloves at the time. I'm merely stating the facts. People don't like these facts, but I can't help that.

Definitely one of the best books I've read in a long time. I felt comforted and uncomfortable, called out and understood. I was laughing and I did cry a little (at the end), and, perhaps most importantly, I was reading it very fast!
I'm always pleased when a book that is heavily adored by (it seems like) everybody and their mother actually turns out to be great, and worthy of the praise.