Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

When people ask me what I do—taxi drivers, hairdressers—I tell them I work in an office. In almost nine years, no one’s ever asked what kind of office, or what sort of job I do there. I can’t decide whether that’s because I fit perfectly with their idea of what an office worker looks like, or whether people hear the phrase work in an office and automatically fill in the blanks themselves—lady doing photocopying, man tapping at a keyboard.

Grief is the price we pay for love, so they say. The price is far too high

I do exist, don’t I? It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a figment of my own imagination.

I do not light up a room when I walk into it. No one longs to see me or to hear my voice. I do not feel sorry for myself, not in the least. These are simply statements of fact.

The world just went on, regardless of what happened.

You are not meant to say that you cried yourself to sleep last night because you hadn’t spoken to another person for two consecutive days. FINE is what you say.

If someone asks you how you are, you are meant to say FINE. You are not meant to say that you cried yourself to sleep last night because you hadn’t spoken to another person for two consecutive days. FINE is what you say

Grief is the price we pay for love, so they say. The price is far too high.

We can meet again tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to get up to speed with everything, if you like?”

He boggled at me. “How on earth did you know that?” he asked, sounding incredulous.