Marianne Cronin

"Graceful, intelligent, beautiful writing. Full of wisdom and kindness. It is just the kind of book I adore."--Joanna Cannon, author of the international bestseller The Trouble with Goats and Sheep A charming, fiercely alive and disarmingly funny debut novel in the vein of John Green, Rachel Joyce, and Jojo Moyes--a brave testament to the power of living each day to the fullest, a tribute to the stories that we live, and a reminder of our unlimited capacity for friendship and love. An extraordinary friendship. A lifetime of stories that begins at the end . . . Seventeen-year-old Lenni Pettersson lives on the Terminal Ward at the Glasgow Princess Royal Hospital. Though the teenager has been told she's dying, she still has plenty of living to do. Joining the hospital's arts and crafts class, she meets the magnificent Margot, an 83-year-old, purple-pajama-wearing, fruitcake-eating rebel, who transforms Lenni in ways she never imagined. As their friendship blooms, a world of stories opens for these unlikely companions who, between them, have been alive for one hundred years. Though their days are dwindling, both are determined to leave their mark on the world. With the help of Lenni's doting palliative care nurse and Father Arthur, the hospital's patient chaplain, Lenni and Margot devise a plan to create one hundred paintings showcasing the stories of the century they have lived--stories of love and loss, of courage and kindness, of unexpected tenderness and pure joy. Though the end is near, life isn't quite done with these unforgettable women just yet. Delightfully funny and bittersweet, heartbreaking yet ultimately uplifting, The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot reminds us of the preciousness of life as it considers the legacy we choose to leave, how we influence the lives of others even after we're gone, and the wonder of a friendship that transcends time.

The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot

Elad Schulman

Alyssa Rovella

Laura Wilson

“Living and dying are both complete mysteries, and you can’t know either until you have done both.”

“They say I’m going to die.” There was a moment of silence between us as Margot studied my face. She looked like she didn’t believe me. “It’s a life-limiting thing,” I said. “But you’re so—” “Young, I know.” “No, you’re so—” “Unlucky?” “No,” she said, still looking at me like she didn’t believe it. “You’re so alive.”

Numbers don’t mean a lot to me. I don’t care about long division or percentages. I don’t know my height or my weight and I can’t remember my dad’s phone number, though I know I used to know it. I prefer words. Delicious, glorious words. But there were two numbers in front of me that mattered, and would matter for the rest of my numbered days. “Between us,” I said quietly, “we’re a hundred years old.”

Somewhere, out in the world, are the people who touched us, or loved us, or ran from us. In that way we will live on.

We want for people to know us, to know our story, to know who we are and who we will be. And after we’ve gone, to know who we were.

We have practiced for death every night. Lying down in the dark and slipping into that place of nothingness between rest and dreams where we have no consciousness, no self, and anything could befall our vulnerable bodies. We have died each night. Or at least, we have laid down to die, and let go of everything in this world, hoping for dreams and morning.

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