Oameni anxioși

I have been, for a few years now, resisting reading Fredrik Backman, on account of his writing not being my style. (I judged the book by its cover. I should have known better)

Now that I have read this book I can only say that I loved it. I have yet to be sold on the style, but that doesn't even matter. I love the story, the characters, the mind that conceived it all and every “idiot” that this book is about.

Fredrick Backman is, above all, a story teller. I couldn't help but wonder how it would be like siting next to him around a campfire or at a dinner table.

Like every book about people, this book made me cry and not just a few times. The last chapters made me want to bury my face in a pillow. (Maybe I should have waited to finish it alone in my bedroom and not on a train)

I don't plan on reading any other books by Fredrick Backman, but I somehow know this is not the last one.