Author: Fredrik Backman
Fredrik Backman captures the unraveling of a mind with devastating tenderness in his novella “And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer.”
This spare yet monumental novella, published in 2016, traces dementia’s heartbreak through intimate dialogues between a grandfather and grandson. Its power lies not in tragedy, but in love’s fierce endurance against oblivion.
Grandpa is trapped in a shrinking mental town square. He navigates fragmented conversations with grandson Noah (whom he refers to as Noahnoah), clutches vanishing memories, and wrestles with unspoken tensions with his son, Ted. All while preparing for the final goodbye — to others and himself.
The shrinking square is dementia’s cruel architecture made visceral. Yet within his exchanges with his grandson, luminous defiance shines. Gentle jokes. Shared secrets. Proof that love outruns oblivion.
Backman’s triumph is avoiding sentimentality. No manipulative tears here, just raw honesty: Grandpa’s panic when words fail, Ted’s helpless anger, Noahnoah’s childhood wisdom becoming the family’s compass. Generational bonds offer lifelines. Grandpa lives in the stories, not his head.
The resonance is universal. Readers who are familiar with dementia’s path will recognize the misplaced keys, the names that vanish, the sudden foreignness of familiar rooms. Backman transforms personal pain into collective catharsis.
A minor flaw surfaces though: Ted’s perspective aches for deeper exploration. His pain lingers tantalizingly unresolved.
My final verdict is that one must devour this in one sitting. Tissues mandatory. For anyone who loves, or has loved, someone slipping away, this story can become an anchor.
