My Friends is written in that classic Backman style – moving, portentous at times, often capturing real ‘human’ moments in just a handful of words. I’m unsure what rating to give it – I think the more Backman I read, the more often I see what’s coming. Does that mean he’s super effective or at times a little too obvious? I just don’t know.
But this is a book that made me cry just a few chapters in.
It begins with a girl looking for a famous painting – she’s been carrying a postcard of it for years, she’s all alone, and it’s the only thing that can bring her comfort. She meets the artist, then everything changes. The painting ends up in her possession, but she doesn’t have a home to keep it in. So she asks the artist’s best friend to take her in. He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. But he can’t abandon her, either. They annoy the hell out of each other, but he recognises her type. She’s ‘one of them’, like the kids he hung around when he and the artist were young.
This is a book about art, grief and feeling. It’s funny, sad, and yes a little on the nose at times. But it’s a memorable, wonderful read.
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