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Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine: Reese's Book Club (A Novel) Paperback – June 5, 2018
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A Reese Witherspoon Book Club Pick
“Beautifully written and incredibly funny, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is about the importance of friendship and human connection. I fell in love with Eleanor, an eccentric and regimented loner whose life beautifully unfolds after a chance encounter with a stranger; I think you will fall in love, too!” —Reese Witherspoon
No one’s ever told Eleanor that life should be better than fine.
Meet Eleanor Oliphant: She struggles with appropriate social skills and tends to say exactly what she’s thinking. Nothing is missing in her carefully timetabled life of avoiding social interactions, where weekends are punctuated by frozen pizza, vodka, and phone chats with Mummy.
But everything changes when Eleanor meets Raymond, the bumbling and deeply unhygienic IT guy from her office. When she and Raymond together save Sammy, an elderly gentleman who has fallen on the sidewalk, the three become the kinds of friends who rescue one another from the lives of isolation they have each been living. And it is Raymond’s big heart that will ultimately help Eleanor find the way to repair her own profoundly damaged one.
Soon to be a major motion picture produced by Reese Witherspoon, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is the smart, warm, and uplifting story of an out-of-the-ordinary heroine whose deadpan weirdness and unconscious wit make for an irresistible journey as she realizes. . .
The only way to survive is to open your heart.
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherPenguin Books
- Publication dateJune 5, 2018
- Dimensions5.29 x 0.76 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100735220697
- ISBN-13978-0735220690
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From the Publisher
Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine: A Novel
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"This wacky, charming novel. . . draws you in with humor, then turns out to contain both a suspenseful subplot and a sweet romance. . . Hilarious and moving." —People
“Eleanor Oliphant is a quirky loner and a model of efficiency with her routine of frozen pizza, vodka and weekly phone calls with Mummy. [She’s] a woman beginning to heal from unimaginable tragedy, with a voice that is deadpan, heartbreaking and humorous all at once.” –NPR.org
"Simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking. . . Eleanor Oliphant may be completely fine, but this book is completely wonderful." --PureWow
"Warm and funny. . . You'll want to read it."—TheSkimm
“Eleanor Oliphant[is] the kind of book you’ll want to devour in a single sitting.” --Vox
“Warm and uplifting." --POPSUGAR
“Sweet and satisfying, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine will speak to introverts who have ever felt a little weird about their place in the world.” --Bustle
"Eleanor Oliphant is a truly original literary creation: funny, touching, and unpredictable. Her journey out of dark shadows is expertly woven and absolutely gripping." --Jojo Moyes, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Me Before You
“[Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine] made me laugh, it made me cry, and the entire time I beamed with joy at the beauty of this story.” –Krysten Ritter, actress, producer, and author of Bonfire
“Move over, Ove (in Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove)—there’s a new curmudgeon to love. . . Walking in Eleanor’s practical black Velcro shoes is delightfully amusing. But readers will also be drawn in by her tragic backstory, which slowly reveals how she came to be so entirely Eleanor. Witty, charming, and heartwarming, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is a remarkable debut about a singular woman. Readers will cheer.” --Booklist(starred review)
"Astounding." --PopMatters
“Eleanor Oliphant is endearing, [a] whip-smart read. . . a fascinating story about loneliness, hope, tragedy and humanity. Honeyman’s delivery is wickedly good, and Eleanor won’t leave you anytime soon." --Associated Press
"Honeyman’s endearing debut is part comic novel, part emotional thriller, and part love story. . . hilarious, deadpan, and irresistible." --Kirkus Reviews
“[A] captivating debut. . . This is a must-read for those who love characters with quirks.” --BookPage
“If you thought Fredrik Backman’s Ove was a charming curmudgeon, you’ll instantly fall for Eleanor.” --Hello Giggles
"The book is wonderfully, quirkily funny. You both ache for Eleanor. . . and laugh with her."--Seattle Times
“A touching, funny novel." --Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Debut author Honeyman expertly captures a woman whose inner pain is excruciating and whose face and heart are scarred, but who still holds the capacity to love and be loved. Eleanor’s story will move readers." --Publishers Weekly
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2017 Gail Honeyman
When people ask me what I do—taxi drivers, hairdressers—I tell them I work in an office. In almost eight 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. I’m not complaining. I’m delighted that I don’t have to get into the fascinating intricacies of accounts receivable with them. When I first started working here, whenever anyone asked, I told them that I worked for a graphic design company, but then they assumed I was a creative type. It became a bit boring to see their faces blank over when I explained that it was back office stuff, that I didn’t get to use the fine‑tipped pens and the fancy software.
I’m nearly thirty years old now and I’ve been working here since I was twenty‑one. Bob, the owner, took me on not long after the office opened. I suppose he felt sorry for me. I had a degree in Classics and no work experience to speak of, and I turned up for the interview with a black eye, a couple of missing teeth and a broken arm. Maybe he sensed, back then, that I would never aspire to anything more than a poorly paid office job, that I would be content to stay with the company and save him the bother of ever having to recruit a replacement. Perhaps he could also tell that I’d never need to take time off to go on honeymoon, or request maternity leave. I don’t know.
It's definitely a two-tier system in the office; the creatives are the film stars, the rest of us merely supporting artists. You can tell by looking at us which category we fall into. To be fair, part of that is salary elated. The back office staff get paid a pittance, and so we can't afford much in the way of sharp haircuts and nerdy glasses. Clothes, music, gadgets-although the designers are desperate to be seen as freethinkers with unique ideas, they all adhere to a strict uniform.
Graphic design is of no interest to me. I'm a finance clerk. I could be issuing invoices for anything, really; armaments, Rohypnol, coconuts.
From Monday to Friday, I come in at 8.30. I take an hour for lunch. I used to bring in my own sandwiches, but the food at home always went off before I could use it up, so now I get something from the high street. I always finish with a trip to Marks & Spencer on a Friday, which rounds off the week nicely. I sit in the staffroom with my sandwich and I read the newspaper from cover to cover, and then do the crosswords. I take the Daily Telegraph, not because I like it particularly, but because it has the best cryptic crossword. I don't talk to anyone–by the time I've bought my meal deal, read the paper and finished both crosswords, the hour is almost up. I go back to my desk and work till 5.30. The bus home takes half an hour.
I make supper and eat it while I listen to the Archers. I usually have pasta with pesto and salad–one pan and one plate. My childhood was full of culinary contradiction, and I've dined on both hand-dived scallops and boil-in-the-bag cod over the years. After much reflection on the political and sociological aspects of the table, I have realized that I am completely uninterested in food. My preference is for fodder hat is cheap, quick and simple to procure and prepare, whilst providing the requisite nutrients to enable a person to stay alive.
After I've washed up, I read a book, or sometimes I watch television if there's a program the Telegraph has recommended that day. I usually (well, always) talk to Mummy on a Wednesday evening for ten minutes or so. I go to bed around ten, read for half an hour and then put the light out. I don’t have trouble sleeping, as a rule.
On Fridays, I don’t get the bus straight after work but instead I go to the Tesco Metro around the corner from the office and buy a margherita pizza, some Chianti and two big bottles of Glen’s vodka. When I get home, I eat the pizza and drink the wine. I have some vodka afterward. I don’t need much on a Friday, just a few big swigs. I usually wake up on the sofa around 3 a.m., and I stumble off to bed. I drink the rest of the vodka over the weekend, spread it throughout both days so that I’m neither drunk nor sober. Monday takes a long time to come around.
My phone doesn’t ring often—it makes me jump when it does—and it’s usually people asking if I’ve been mis‑sold Payment Protection Insurance. I whisper I know where you live to them, and hang up the phone very, very gently. No one’s been in my flat this year apart from service professionals; I’ve not voluntarily invited another human being across the threshold, except to read the meter. You’d think that would be impossible, wouldn’t you? It’s true, though. I do exist, don’t I? It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.
The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday. People phone the office to discuss credit lines, send me emails about contracts and estimates. The employees I share an office with—Janey, Loretta, Bernadette and Billy—would notice if I didn’t turn up. After a few days (I’ve often wondered how many) they would worry that I hadn’t phoned in sick—so unlike me—and they’d dig out my address from the personnel files. I suppose they’d call the police in the end, wouldn’t they? Would the officers break down the front door? Find me, covering their faces, gagging at the smell? That would give them something to talk about in the office. They hate me, but they don't actually wish me dead. I don't think so, anyway.
I went to the doctor yesterday. It feels like eons ago. I got the young doctor this time, the pale chap with the red hair, which I was pleased about. The younger they are, the more recent their training, and that can only be a good thing. I hate it when I get old Dr. Wilson; she's about sixty, and I can't imagine she knows much about the latest drugs and medical breakthroughs. She can barely work the computer.
The doctor was doing that thing where they talk to you but don't look at you, reading my notes on the screen, hitting the return key with increasing ferocity as he scrolled down.
"What can I do for you this time, Miss Oliphant?"
"It's back pain, Doctor," I told him. "I've been in agony." He still didn't look at me.
"How long have you been experiencing this?" he said.
"A couple of weeks," I told him.
He nodded.
"I think I know what's causing it," I said, "but I wanted to get your opinion."
He stopped reading, finally looked across at me.
"What is it that you think is causing your back pain, Miss Oliphant?"
"I think it's my breasts, Doctor," I told him.
"Your breasts?"
"Yes," I said. "You see, I've weighed them, and they're almost half a stone-combined weight, that is, not each!" I laughed. He stared at me, not laughing. "That's a lot of weight to carry around, isn't it?" I asked him. "I mean, if I were to strap half a stone of additional flesh to your chest and force you to walk around all day like that, your back would hurt too, wouldn't it?"
He stared at me, then cleared his throat.
Product details
- Publisher : Penguin Books; Reprint edition (June 5, 2018)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0735220697
- ISBN-13 : 978-0735220690
- Item Weight : 2.31 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.29 x 0.76 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #773 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #11 in Humorous Fiction
- #69 in Contemporary Women Fiction
- #132 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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“I do exist, don’t I? It often feels as if I’m not here, that I’m a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.”
Eleanor Oliphant is painfully socially inept and completely not attuned to social decencies, an outcome of her horrendous childhood. She spends her weekdays working in the finance department of a graphic design company and avoiding her judgmental co-workers and her weekends drinking the liter or two of vodka she purchases from her local convenience store. Her life is regimented, structured, and very, very boring. The monotony of her life interrupted when she and the new IT guy, Raymond, help an elderly man who passed out on the sidewalk after work. These chain of events and a little bit of fate take Eleanor on an emotional journey she wasn’t planning on taking but one she has needed for a very long time.
“My phone doesn’t ring often–it makes me jump when it does–and it’s usually people asking if I’ve been missold Payment Protection Insurance. I whisper I know where you live to them, and hang up the phone very, very gentle.
When I started this book, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Eleanor. She is blunt and judgmental. What comes out of her mouth is often unintentionally funny because she is just so emotionally and socially stunted. I laughed out loud quite a bit even though Eleanor wasn’t making jokes. Like, the time she went to get a bikini wax and the esthetician asked her if she wanted a Tiffani, Brazilian, or a Hollywood wax. Eleanor said, “Holly would, and so would Eleanor.” There is a naïveté and innocence to her character that is completely endearing and charming, though there were moments Honeyman was asking the reader to suspend disbelief a little too far. When I finished the novel, I realized that I came to love Eleanor along the way, all the crooked and unique parts of her character.
A philosophical question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And if a woman who’s wholly alone occasionally talks to a pot plant, is she certifiable? I think that it is perfectly normal to talk to oneself occasionally. It’s not as though I’m expecting a reply. I’m fully aware that Polly is a houseplant.
This book reminded me so much of an off-the-wall indie movie, complete with quirky characters and a great friendship storyline. I reach a point about a third of the way where I just loved where Honeyman was taking the story.
The cast of characters in this novel was what made it that much more enjoyable. We meet Raymond, the new guy at work, who Eleanor describes as an unattractive overweight man who smokes and walks on the balls of his feet. What he lacks in conventional beauty, he makes up for in heart. He’s such a good guy who loves his mom and over time, comes to really care about Eleanor. Sammy, the older gentleman Eleanor and Raymond help, is vivacious, sprite, and so great!
“These days, loneliness is the new cancer—a shameful, embarrassing thing, brought upon yourself in some obscure way. A fearful, incurable thing, so horrifying that you dare mention it; other people don’t want to hear the word spoken aloud for fear that they might too be afflicted or that it might tempt fate into visiting a similar horror upon them.”
But the highlight of the novel was seeing Eleanor blossom and start to deal with her own pain. Despite the title, Eleanor Oliphant wasn’t completely fine but she will be. Uplifting and hopeful, this novel is one I will come back to, just so I can spend time with Eleanor just a little bit longer.
Audiobook Comments:
After reading this book, I picked it right back up again on audiobook. The audiobook is really great and I really loved the narrator’s Eleanor. Her dry, deadpan delivery was absolutely perfect! Highly recommended!
* Thanks to the Penguin First Reads program and Penguin Random House Audio for providing me a review copy for review!
Eleanor is the type of character that I perceive had she been written about a century or two ago, her fate would be different from what we read here. Even more tragic, which is saying a lot. In contemporary times when young women [and men] have access to all manner of comfort, countless entertainment options, myriad ways of communication, seemingly endless avenues of pleasures, Eleanor finds herself lost in the fray. She is barely visible, she is inaudible, heart-breakingly lonely and pining for the tiniest of human connection. Like a mustard seed floating in the Pacific, without compass, with only the rising and setting sun its company.
Immediately on page 3, I was taken by Eleanor's story. She is witty, she is smart. She is bitingly sassy, perceptive, wise beyond her years. Barely anything gets by her. Eleanor has a gift to see others as they likely are, yet she is unable to see herself for her own circumstances. Circumstances that are more serious than she herself knows. It has been a long time since a character could in one stream of their consciousness make me laugh, make me cry, and make me sit back and think about my own place in the world.
In our current age of conceited Instagram posts, vacuous tweets, infantile snapchats, plus the vapid pop culture lifestyle that insipid faux celebs try to pass off to fans as enviable in order to seek validation - Eleanor, like many of us, is hurting and drowning amidst all the fakery. To cope, she has built a wall around herself, one which she thinks protects her, not knowing that the higher the wall, the further she alienates herself from the potential kindness of strangers. Eleanor's tragic past as well as her sullen present are wrought with an underlying layer of sorrow. A sorrow that Gail Honeyman skillfully reveals at the methodical pace of someone peeling the fibrous layers of an acrid, soon to spoil onion. I say onion because once fully disclosed, the reader, like I was, will no doubt be on the verge of tears.
I enjoyed Eleanor's story immensely and I liked Honeyman's writing of her. She is unlike any female character I've read in a long time. I do however wished the author had written a longer story, delving deeper into Eleanor's past, and being more descriptive into Eleanor's earlier years. Had she done so, it would have made this book 5-stars for me. Despite some room for improvement in the overall story, 'Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine' is a tragically beautiful, powerful read and I highly recommend it. I recommend for women between the age of 20 to 50. I especially recommend it to teen girls, girls who are still discovering themselves, the ones who think the smallest of inconvenience is the end of the world. I highly recommend this book to men of all ages: dads, boyfriends, sons, husbands, male bosses, so they get to know one example of what their daughters, their girlfriends, their mothers, their wives, their female associates may be going through internally.
Lastly, there are two sentences on page 5, two of many that I highlighted during my reading and I've attached an image of - that I dare anyone to read and not truthfully admit that they themselves have not at least once felt this way in their life. These two sentences fully encapsulate who Eleanor is, and what her life is like in these wretched times. Pain and loneliness are universal, yet we each suffer as if we are a population of one.
Reviewed in the United States on February 27, 2019
Eleanor is the type of character that I perceive had she been written about a century or two ago, her fate would be different from what we read here. Even more tragic, which is saying a lot. In contemporary times when young women [and men] have access to all manner of comfort, countless entertainment options, myriad ways of communication, seemingly endless avenues of pleasures, Eleanor finds herself lost in the fray. She is barely visible, she is inaudible, heart-breakingly lonely and pining for the tiniest of human connection. Like a mustard seed floating in the Pacific, without compass, with only the rising and setting sun its company.
Immediately on page 3, I was taken by Eleanor's story. She is witty, she is smart. She is bitingly sassy, perceptive, wise beyond her years. Barely anything gets by her. Eleanor has a gift to see others as they likely are, yet she is unable to see herself for her own circumstances. Circumstances that are more serious than she herself knows. It has been a long time since a character could in one stream of their consciousness make me laugh, make me cry, and make me sit back and think about my own place in the world.
In our current age of conceited Instagram posts, vacuous tweets, infantile snapchats, plus the vapid pop culture lifestyle that insipid faux celebs try to pass off to fans as enviable in order to seek validation - Eleanor, like many of us, is hurting and drowning amidst all the fakery. To cope, she has built a wall around herself, one which she thinks protects her, not knowing that the higher the wall, the further she alienates herself from the potential kindness of strangers. Eleanor's tragic past as well as her sullen present are wrought with an underlying layer of sorrow. A sorrow that Gail Honeyman skillfully reveals at the methodical pace of someone peeling the fibrous layers of an acrid, soon to spoil onion. I say onion because once fully disclosed, the reader, like I was, will no doubt be on the verge of tears.
I enjoyed Eleanor's story immensely and I liked Honeyman's writing of her. She is unlike any female character I've read in a long time. I do however wished the author had written a longer story, delving deeper into Eleanor's past, and being more descriptive into Eleanor's earlier years. Had she done so, it would have made this book 5-stars for me. Despite some room for improvement in the overall story, 'Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine' is a tragically beautiful, powerful read and I highly recommend it. I recommend for women between the age of 20 to 50. I especially recommend it to teen girls, girls who are still discovering themselves, the ones who think the smallest of inconvenience is the end of the world. I highly recommend this book to men of all ages: dads, boyfriends, sons, husbands, male bosses, so they get to know one example of what their daughters, their girlfriends, their mothers, their wives, their female associates may be going through internally.
Lastly, there are two sentences on page 5, two of many that I highlighted during my reading and I've attached an image of - that I dare anyone to read and not truthfully admit that they themselves have not at least once felt this way in their life. These two sentences fully encapsulate who Eleanor is, and what her life is like in these wretched times. Pain and loneliness are universal, yet we each suffer as if we are a population of one.