Lately I’ve been reading, almost devouring, the book “A man called Ove” by Fredrik Backman.
In the past few days I read a couple passaged that really touched me deeply, that resonated profoundly with some emotions that have been resurfacing more intensely for me recently.
‘”She’s the only teacher I ever had who didn’t think I was thick as a plank,” he mumbles, almost choking on his emotion. […]
He’s silent. And then they both stand there, the fifty-nine-year-old and the teenager, a few yards apart, kicking at the snow. As if they were kicking a memory back and forth, a memory of a woman who insisted on seeing more potential in certain men that they saw in themselves. Neither of them knows what to do with their shared experience.’
[…]
[…]
‘Maybe their [common] sorrow over […] should have brought the two men closer. But sorrow is unreliable in that way. When people don’t share it, there’s a good chance that it will drive them apart instead.’
The Little Prince and the Fox 