And she wept. An ancient, inconsolable despair that screamed and tore and shredded them both as countless hours passed.
That's the power of literature, you know, it can act like little love letters between two people who can only explain their feelings by pointing at other people's.
She just smiled, said that she loved books more than anything, and started telling him excitedly what each of the ones in her lap was about. And Ove realised that he wanted to hear her talking about the things she loved for the rest of his life.
