Présentation de l'éditeur The bestselling "offbeat, down-to- earth love story"(The Observer, London)- now available in the United States An international sensation, this addictively readable tale asks the question: Why is it so impossible to get a relationship between two middle-aged misfits to work? The answer lies in the story of Shrimp, a young widowed librarian with a sharp intellect and a home so tidy that her jam jars are in alphabetical order; Benny, a gentle, overworked milk farmer who fears becoming the village's Old Bachelor; and an unlikely love that should not be as complicated as it seems. Reminiscent of the works of Carol Shields, this quirky, humorous, beautifully told novel breathes new life into the age-old conundrum that is love. Extrait Who stands up for the dead?Looks after their rights,listens to their problems,and waters their potted plants? You'll have to be on your guard! An aggrieved, single woman in a distinctly abnormal emotional state. Who knows what I might get up to at the next full moon? You've read Stephen King, haven't you? I'm sitting by my husband's grave, on a dark green bench worn smooth by use, and letting his headstone irritate me. It's a sober little chunk of natural stone with just his name on it—"Örjan Wallin" in the plainest of plain lettering. Simple, you might even say over explicit, just like he was. And he chose it himself, too; left instructions with the funeral director. Just a little thing like that. I mean, he wasn't even ill. I know exactly what message he was intending his stone to convey: Death is a Completely Natural Part of the Cycle. He was a biologist. Thanks for that, Örjan. I sit here on my lunch break several times a week, and always at least once at weekends. If it starts raining, I get out a plastic raincoat that folds away into a little purse. It's hideously ugly; I found it in my mother's chest of drawers. There are lots of us with raincoats like that, in the cemetery. I always sit here for at least an hour. Presumably in the hope of getting down to the right sort of grieving if I stick at it long enough. I'd feel better if I could feel worse, you might say. If I could sit here wringing out endless hankies without stealing constant glances at myself to check the tears were genuine. The awful truth is, half the time, all I feel is furious with him. Bloody deserter, why couldn't you watch where you were going? And my feelings the rest of the time are, I suppose, pretty much like those of a child who had a parakeet for twelve years and then it died. There, I've said it. I miss the constant companionship and all our daily routines. There's no one rustling the paper on the sofa beside me; no smell of coffee when I come home; the shoe rack looks like a tree in winter without all Örjan's boots and wellies. And if I can't work out the answer to "Sun god, two letters," I have to guess it, or leave it blank. One half of the double bed's always neat. Nobody'd worry where I'd got to if I didn't come home because I happened to have been run over by a car. And nobody flushes the toilet if I'm not there. So here I am, sitting in the cemetery, missing the sound of the flush. Weird enough for you, Stephen? There's something about cemeteries that always makes me think of some convulsive, second-rate stand-up comedian. Repression and gabbled strings of words, of course—but surely I can allow myself that? I haven't much besides my little repressions to occupy me these days. With Örjan, at least I knew who I was. We defined each other; after all, that's what relationships between two people are for. Who am I now? I'm at the mercy of whoever happens to see me. For some I'm a voter, for others a pedestrian, a wage earner, a consumer of culture, a human resource, or a property owner. Or just a collection of split ends, leaking sanitary napkins, and dry skin. Though of course I can still use Örjan for defining myself. He can do me that one, posthumous favor. If Örjanhadn't e