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Årstidsencyklopedien #4
Summer
The grand finale of Karl Ove Knausgaard's masterful and intensely-personal series about the four seasons, illustrated with paintings by the great German artist Anselm Kiefer
2 June--It is completely dark out now. It is twenty-three minutes to midnight and you have already slept for four hours. What you will dream of tonight, no one will ever know. Even if you were to remember it when you wake up, you wouldn't have a language in which to communicate it to us, nor do I think that you quite understand what dreams are, I think that is still undefined for you, that your thoughts haven't grasped it yet, and that it therefore lies within that strange zone where it neither exists nor doesn't exist.
The conclusion to one of the most extraordinary and original literary projects in recent years, Summer once again intersperses short vividly descriptive essays with emotionally-raw diary entries addressed directly to Knausgaard's newborn daughter. Writing more expansively and, if it is possible, even more intimately and unguardedly than in the previous three volumes, he mines with new depth his difficult memories of his childhood and fraught relationship with his own father. Documenting his family's life in rural Sweden and reflecting on a characteristically eclectic array of subjects--mosquitoes, barbeques, cynicism, and skin, to name just a few--he braids the various threads of the previous volumes into a moving conclusion.
At his most voluminous since My Struggle, his epic sensational series, Knausgaard writes for his daughter, striving to make ready and give meaning to a world at once indifferent and achingly beautiful. In his hands, the overwhelming joys and insoluble pains of family and parenthood come alive with uncommon feeling.
2 June--It is completely dark out now. It is twenty-three minutes to midnight and you have already slept for four hours. What you will dream of tonight, no one will ever know. Even if you were to remember it when you wake up, you wouldn't have a language in which to communicate it to us, nor do I think that you quite understand what dreams are, I think that is still undefined for you, that your thoughts haven't grasped it yet, and that it therefore lies within that strange zone where it neither exists nor doesn't exist.
The conclusion to one of the most extraordinary and original literary projects in recent years, Summer once again intersperses short vividly descriptive essays with emotionally-raw diary entries addressed directly to Knausgaard's newborn daughter. Writing more expansively and, if it is possible, even more intimately and unguardedly than in the previous three volumes, he mines with new depth his difficult memories of his childhood and fraught relationship with his own father. Documenting his family's life in rural Sweden and reflecting on a characteristically eclectic array of subjects--mosquitoes, barbeques, cynicism, and skin, to name just a few--he braids the various threads of the previous volumes into a moving conclusion.
At his most voluminous since My Struggle, his epic sensational series, Knausgaard writes for his daughter, striving to make ready and give meaning to a world at once indifferent and achingly beautiful. In his hands, the overwhelming joys and insoluble pains of family and parenthood come alive with uncommon feeling.
416 pages, Hardcover
First published August 31, 2016
About the author
Karl Ove Knausgård
80 books8,089 followersNominated to the 2004 Nordic Council’s Literature Prize & awarded the 2004 Norwegian Critics’ Prize.
Karl Ove Knausgård (b. 1968) made his literary debut in 1998 with the widely acclaimed novel Out of the World, which was a great critical and commercial success and won him, as the first debut novel ever, The Norwegian Critics' Prize. He then went on to write six autobiographical novels, titled My Struggle (Min Kamp), which have become a publication phenomenon in his native Norway as well as the world over.
Karl Ove Knausgård (b. 1968) made his literary debut in 1998 with the widely acclaimed novel Out of the World, which was a great critical and commercial success and won him, as the first debut novel ever, The Norwegian Critics' Prize. He then went on to write six autobiographical novels, titled My Struggle (Min Kamp), which have become a publication phenomenon in his native Norway as well as the world over.
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December 19, 2021
When the darkness darkens at night, at the end of July, beginning of August, when it seems to become more humid and no longer dissolves so quickly in the air, the plums start to ripen. Therefore, their sweet taste always brings with it a hint of melancholy; summer is over again.
To everything there is a season – and if one would tend to forget that ancient wisdom there is the passing of the seasons to rekindle one’s awareness of the transience of all things, whether one likes it or not and whether such affects the mood or not.
Summer’s gone and like summer breezes and scents some impressions from these short pieces and diary entries linger on in my mind since I brought the book back to the library a few months ago, fugitive reminiscences of the droplets of intensely lyrical observations and acute reflections which emerge from the continuous stream of autobiographical mundanity which flows over the pages, involving the reader in the intimacy and repetitiveness of daily parenting in which Karl Ove Knausgård is driving around with his youngest daughter Anne (who he addresses in his writing) for grocery shopping or to pick up or drop off his other three children from or to their activities.
Perhaps it was unwise to read this fourth and final instalment of Knausgård’s seasonal quartet before reading the second and the third, on the plus side sticking to my initial plan to read Summer in summer intensified the sense of nature and summer family activities Knausgård evokes in his musings on plums, cats, butterflies, ladybirds, ice cream and wasps. Longer diary entries covering the months of June, July and August alternate with short essay-esque introspective vignettes (as in the first instalment of the cycle, Autumn), both dealing with themes as writing, literature, identity, beauty, the significance of art, nature, objects and phenomena as cynicism and repetition (I love repetition. Repetitions turn time into a place, turn the days into a house.). In the diary entries Knausgård weaves in the story of a Norwegian woman who abandons her husband and children during WWII for an Austrian soldier she nurses back to health, shifting the narrative perspective to her point of view – a rather unsatisfying digression of which I guess I missed the point.
(Erik Hoppe, Norwegian Mountain Landscape).
Because Knausgård writes so profusely about domestic affairs and reveals the everyday drudgery those bring if only by describing those little activities eating one’s time amply and meticulously, the reflections of Siri Hustvedt on what she denominates as Knausgård’s ‘feminine writing’ (in the cycle ‘My Struggle’) in her essay Knausgaard Writes Like a Woman struck me as particularly perceptive – these are not topics I recall having often encountered in essays or autofiction of male authors. In Summer it is the concatenation of the intellectual, the philosophical and the commonness of everyday life which offers a glimpse into the depth and the fullness of life, a strong reminder we are body and mind.
Our small lives are traversed by momentous movements, avalanches in the depths of the everyday.
I couldn’t but read this in a slow pace, pausing to mull over some of his thoughts and insights and now deploring having lost my notes with quotations I sampled from the book. I’ll keep on reading Knausgård and as it is winter time now, the time has come to read Winter next.
(***1/2)
To everything there is a season – and if one would tend to forget that ancient wisdom there is the passing of the seasons to rekindle one’s awareness of the transience of all things, whether one likes it or not and whether such affects the mood or not.
Summer’s gone and like summer breezes and scents some impressions from these short pieces and diary entries linger on in my mind since I brought the book back to the library a few months ago, fugitive reminiscences of the droplets of intensely lyrical observations and acute reflections which emerge from the continuous stream of autobiographical mundanity which flows over the pages, involving the reader in the intimacy and repetitiveness of daily parenting in which Karl Ove Knausgård is driving around with his youngest daughter Anne (who he addresses in his writing) for grocery shopping or to pick up or drop off his other three children from or to their activities.
Perhaps it was unwise to read this fourth and final instalment of Knausgård’s seasonal quartet before reading the second and the third, on the plus side sticking to my initial plan to read Summer in summer intensified the sense of nature and summer family activities Knausgård evokes in his musings on plums, cats, butterflies, ladybirds, ice cream and wasps. Longer diary entries covering the months of June, July and August alternate with short essay-esque introspective vignettes (as in the first instalment of the cycle, Autumn), both dealing with themes as writing, literature, identity, beauty, the significance of art, nature, objects and phenomena as cynicism and repetition (I love repetition. Repetitions turn time into a place, turn the days into a house.). In the diary entries Knausgård weaves in the story of a Norwegian woman who abandons her husband and children during WWII for an Austrian soldier she nurses back to health, shifting the narrative perspective to her point of view – a rather unsatisfying digression of which I guess I missed the point.
(Erik Hoppe, Norwegian Mountain Landscape).
Because Knausgård writes so profusely about domestic affairs and reveals the everyday drudgery those bring if only by describing those little activities eating one’s time amply and meticulously, the reflections of Siri Hustvedt on what she denominates as Knausgård’s ‘feminine writing’ (in the cycle ‘My Struggle’) in her essay Knausgaard Writes Like a Woman struck me as particularly perceptive – these are not topics I recall having often encountered in essays or autofiction of male authors. In Summer it is the concatenation of the intellectual, the philosophical and the commonness of everyday life which offers a glimpse into the depth and the fullness of life, a strong reminder we are body and mind.
Our small lives are traversed by momentous movements, avalanches in the depths of the everyday.
I couldn’t but read this in a slow pace, pausing to mull over some of his thoughts and insights and now deploring having lost my notes with quotations I sampled from the book. I’ll keep on reading Knausgård and as it is winter time now, the time has come to read Winter next.
(***1/2)
February 27, 2020
"That is one of the tasks of literature, to remind us of our insignificance and make us understand that our own way of producing meaning is merely one of the many possible in the world, along with that of the forest, the plains, the mountains, the sky. The world is untranslatable, but not incomprehensible, as long as you know the simple rule that none of what it expresses is followed by question marks, but, through its myriads of life and creatures, only by exclamation marks.”
In 'Summer', Knausgard falls back on the earlier format in his seasonal series: pieces of reflections on both banal and more profound themes, observations and musings. But once in a while he deviates from that path: the book contains a small story cycle about a Norwegian woman who abandons her husband and children during the war to elope with a German soldier, and it also contains diary entries from Knausgard himself who, in terms of ruthless introspection again is reminiscent of his My Struggle cycle. I think that this formal variation is not entirely successful.
There is another striking difference, certainly in comparison with the previous Spring, and that is that his wife Linda almost completely disappears in the story, she is hardly mentioned and even then only as "mother". Perhaps it is the reflection of the separation between Knausgard and his wife who, at the time of writing this part, may already have been a fact, or was on the way. This enormous turn in the life of Knausgard may also be reflected in the themes he addresses in this Summer-part, which constantly zoom in on repetition, habituation and stagnation in contrast to freedom and unboundness. It may be speculative, but it would certainly be vintage Knausgard.
Anyway, once again it is a joy to read those very sensitive, in-depth observations with which Knausgard digs back into his own, very fragile soul and that of the world. I know he is as much loathed as he is loved for this approach, but he certainly doesn't leave you indifferent.
In 'Summer', Knausgard falls back on the earlier format in his seasonal series: pieces of reflections on both banal and more profound themes, observations and musings. But once in a while he deviates from that path: the book contains a small story cycle about a Norwegian woman who abandons her husband and children during the war to elope with a German soldier, and it also contains diary entries from Knausgard himself who, in terms of ruthless introspection again is reminiscent of his My Struggle cycle. I think that this formal variation is not entirely successful.
There is another striking difference, certainly in comparison with the previous Spring, and that is that his wife Linda almost completely disappears in the story, she is hardly mentioned and even then only as "mother". Perhaps it is the reflection of the separation between Knausgard and his wife who, at the time of writing this part, may already have been a fact, or was on the way. This enormous turn in the life of Knausgard may also be reflected in the themes he addresses in this Summer-part, which constantly zoom in on repetition, habituation and stagnation in contrast to freedom and unboundness. It may be speculative, but it would certainly be vintage Knausgard.
Anyway, once again it is a joy to read those very sensitive, in-depth observations with which Knausgard digs back into his own, very fragile soul and that of the world. I know he is as much loathed as he is loved for this approach, but he certainly doesn't leave you indifferent.
September 11, 2018
A hybrid of the approaches in Autumn, Winter, and Spring. Diary and meditations. Plus something new: a point-of-view shift in the next sentence, always announced in advance like that, from KOK's typical first-person (consistent and reliable narrator/author overlap) to a first person in which the narrator is nothing like the author at all (a mother of three children in an unhappy relationship who nurses an Austrian soldier to health during WWII, falls in love, and leaves with him, choosing freedom over everything else -- which may abstractly/obliquely relate to the news that Karl Ove and Linda have recently split). This fictional first-person POV seemed really forced at times and was difficult to read without fighting the impulse to skim until the nearly story-length passage that started to take off after ten pages but nevertheless felt underwritten and a little rushed, even for Knausgaard. Many dog-eared pages throughout I'll most likely not return to and type up to post here for posterity even though I'd like to do just that. But generally the same sort of thing, thematically -- permeability between this and that, internal and external worlds, although in this installment there's often a recurrent gesture in the direction of freedom, of busting out of duality, balance, the expected. Ends in a swarm of ladybugs after a swarm of wasps after a BBQ grill sets the overhanging trees on fire. An ecstatic collection overall, built on moments when the mundane seems extraordinary, observations with a spiritual side that always say something about the nature of art and what it means to make meaning from the meaningless raw material of life. Felt at times like a different translator or at least I noticed so many parts that opened with good old-fashioned Euro-style comma splices, something I rarely noticed in the other volumes or My Struggle. Generally, I'm pretty sure I'd prefer to read Knausgaard than any other living author, so while this may seem looser than his others, it's still a worthwhile way to spend some days in early September or otherwise.
November 14, 2025
Último volumen de este cuarteto de Karl Ove Knausgård. Retoma el formato de entradas a modo de diario de los dos primeros volúmenes, a diferencia del tercero, Spring, que me gustó bastante más.
Y mantiene las mismas características en su tono intimista y familiar, muy reflexivo, incluso a veces poético en su mirada y reflexiones.
En esas partes de reflexividad poética es cuando más he disfrutado.
Otras entradas vienen a ser digresiones sin mucho sentido de temas más variados y se me han hecho muy pesadas. En esas ocasiones el ritmo es lento y el contenido parece irrelevante.
Me habrían hecho gracia para un solo volumen, pero escribir cuatro libros no ha tenido sentido narrativo alguno. Su sentido es estético, para reflejar las cuatro estaciones en un ciclo completo de vida, desde el embarazo y nacimiento de su hija, y encuadrar la realidad cotidiana en un marco temporal y sensorial. Aunque en mi opinión no lo ha logrado del todo.
La edición que yo he leído en inglés por “Harvill Secker” es de una calidad magnífica, calidad del papel, edición, tipografía, repleta de dibujos artísticos de dibujantes distintos en cada volumen que los hace visualmente bellísimos. Una obra de arte.
Y mantiene las mismas características en su tono intimista y familiar, muy reflexivo, incluso a veces poético en su mirada y reflexiones.
En esas partes de reflexividad poética es cuando más he disfrutado.
Otras entradas vienen a ser digresiones sin mucho sentido de temas más variados y se me han hecho muy pesadas. En esas ocasiones el ritmo es lento y el contenido parece irrelevante.
Me habrían hecho gracia para un solo volumen, pero escribir cuatro libros no ha tenido sentido narrativo alguno. Su sentido es estético, para reflejar las cuatro estaciones en un ciclo completo de vida, desde el embarazo y nacimiento de su hija, y encuadrar la realidad cotidiana en un marco temporal y sensorial. Aunque en mi opinión no lo ha logrado del todo.
La edición que yo he leído en inglés por “Harvill Secker” es de una calidad magnífica, calidad del papel, edición, tipografía, repleta de dibujos artísticos de dibujantes distintos en cada volumen que los hace visualmente bellísimos. Una obra de arte.
July 9, 2018
Summer season's greetings from this peculiar Norwegian writer.
Karl Ove Knausgård’s tetralogy of seasons books ends in summer (which is only logical as it started in the fall). Strangely, the German version was published in May 29th (the other three in the season they belong to), so I had to restrain myself and not devour it prematurely. After the spring edition I was hoping was something similar here. I liked the short essayist vignettes from “autumn” and “winter”, yet I much preferred the continuous narrative from “spring”. In “summer” you’ll get both. It’s a kind of a mixture of the two approaches. There are these essaylets; eighteen of them for all of the three months, with a wide range of subjects like lawn sprinklers, rosebay willowherbs (a.k.a. fireweed), or cynicism. Once again, KOK uses his respective topics only as a springboard for further, deeper, thoughts. Not all of those 50+ pieces worked for me, but many of them did.
The heart and soul of this book, however, are two longer texts. Together they make up a little over 50% of the book. Those are diary entries for the months June and July 2016. Once again his youngest daughter, who is now two years old, is addressed directly most of the time. He tells her about the days they spend together or apart, about what he experienced and thought, and about what she did (because he believes she won’t be able to remember) and said (because “language has finally found you”). There’s also a longer section about his trip to Brazil (for business reasons), he took together with his son. And then there is a story, told by a different narrator, a different “I”, which is spread out across the diary and whose premise sounded familiar to me. I was lucky to find the starting point of this story in Min Kamp #5. I wonder if this is a real story, or something that KOK made up entirely. With this guy you’ll just never know.
At one point he says: “It is the possibilities of narrative, in which terms such as fiction and non-fiction fall short, they are too coarse or not what it is about. It's not the whole point. It is often said that fiction can be truer than reality, that truth is understood as a kind of sublime meaning, as something crystallized and universal. Poetic truth, it was once called. That the truth of reality, that is, the events that have taken place, are bound to the ego that tells them, with all the limitations that this entails. I believe in that, it is true. Poetic truth, though not necessarily greater, is in any case more important than reality. But you don’t need to write much about self-experiences to realize that this is the same principle as poetic truth. Not in the sense that you add or make up something, but when you consider how the story is shaped, which version you accept. It’s almost like an equation; the more universal truth, the less personal truth. It is all about what space is built up in the narrative, how much of the ego is visible and to what extent the narrator identifies with that ego. If the identification is total, the personal truth will be greater, but then only it will be expressed, and that is exactly what the old rule of thumb meant that literature has to be personal but not private.” [translated by me]
I guess you could apply these rules to pretty much anything KOK wrote, including his Min Kamp novels. One thing that struck me was the absence of names of family members. I don’t think the children’s names ever get mentioned, and the wife and mother's name, “Linda”, only appears twice in the whole book. Maybe a breakup is already happening, because the couple divorced only three months later, in November 2016. And maybe, KOK decided to tell the fictional/non-fictional story within his diaries for the exact same reason, as it deals with a woman of three who ... [spoiler removed] ... ?
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Karl Ove Knausgård’s tetralogy of seasons books ends in summer (which is only logical as it started in the fall). Strangely, the German version was published in May 29th (the other three in the season they belong to), so I had to restrain myself and not devour it prematurely. After the spring edition I was hoping was something similar here. I liked the short essayist vignettes from “autumn” and “winter”, yet I much preferred the continuous narrative from “spring”. In “summer” you’ll get both. It’s a kind of a mixture of the two approaches. There are these essaylets; eighteen of them for all of the three months, with a wide range of subjects like lawn sprinklers, rosebay willowherbs (a.k.a. fireweed), or cynicism. Once again, KOK uses his respective topics only as a springboard for further, deeper, thoughts. Not all of those 50+ pieces worked for me, but many of them did.
The heart and soul of this book, however, are two longer texts. Together they make up a little over 50% of the book. Those are diary entries for the months June and July 2016. Once again his youngest daughter, who is now two years old, is addressed directly most of the time. He tells her about the days they spend together or apart, about what he experienced and thought, and about what she did (because he believes she won’t be able to remember) and said (because “language has finally found you”). There’s also a longer section about his trip to Brazil (for business reasons), he took together with his son. And then there is a story, told by a different narrator, a different “I”, which is spread out across the diary and whose premise sounded familiar to me. I was lucky to find the starting point of this story in Min Kamp #5. I wonder if this is a real story, or something that KOK made up entirely. With this guy you’ll just never know.
At one point he says: “It is the possibilities of narrative, in which terms such as fiction and non-fiction fall short, they are too coarse or not what it is about. It's not the whole point. It is often said that fiction can be truer than reality, that truth is understood as a kind of sublime meaning, as something crystallized and universal. Poetic truth, it was once called. That the truth of reality, that is, the events that have taken place, are bound to the ego that tells them, with all the limitations that this entails. I believe in that, it is true. Poetic truth, though not necessarily greater, is in any case more important than reality. But you don’t need to write much about self-experiences to realize that this is the same principle as poetic truth. Not in the sense that you add or make up something, but when you consider how the story is shaped, which version you accept. It’s almost like an equation; the more universal truth, the less personal truth. It is all about what space is built up in the narrative, how much of the ego is visible and to what extent the narrator identifies with that ego. If the identification is total, the personal truth will be greater, but then only it will be expressed, and that is exactly what the old rule of thumb meant that literature has to be personal but not private.” [translated by me]
I guess you could apply these rules to pretty much anything KOK wrote, including his Min Kamp novels. One thing that struck me was the absence of names of family members. I don’t think the children’s names ever get mentioned, and the wife and mother's name, “Linda”, only appears twice in the whole book. Maybe a breakup is already happening, because the couple divorced only three months later, in November 2016. And maybe, KOK decided to tell the fictional/non-fictional story within his diaries for the exact same reason, as it deals with a woman of three who ... [spoiler removed] ... ?
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
September 17, 2020
Ok, ovo je poklenjena 5. Ljeto definitivno nije na razini Proljeća, ali...
Ovaj memoarsko-dnevnički zapis probudio je neka unutarnja strujanja i razbuktao mi misli. Mislim da za mene ne postoji nešto tako ambivalentno kao što je ljeto. Ne znam čemu se više veselim: njegovom početku ili kraju?
Nakon sjajnih Godišnjih doba(a zar nisu sva godišnja doba, u svojoj različitosti, zapravo sjajna?!) Moja borba definitivno zaslužuje još jednu šansu. Bilo je ovo baš divno jednogodišnje druženje/čitanje s Knausgaardom.
Ovaj memoarsko-dnevnički zapis probudio je neka unutarnja strujanja i razbuktao mi misli. Mislim da za mene ne postoji nešto tako ambivalentno kao što je ljeto. Ne znam čemu se više veselim: njegovom početku ili kraju?
Nakon sjajnih Godišnjih doba(a zar nisu sva godišnja doba, u svojoj različitosti, zapravo sjajna?!) Moja borba definitivno zaslužuje još jednu šansu. Bilo je ovo baš divno jednogodišnje druženje/čitanje s Knausgaardom.
November 17, 2018
This is the last of KOK's "seasonal" books, an odd collection with mixed styles of writing, and the mix is most pronounced here. Fall and Winter were filled with encyclopedia-like mini-essays on everyday topics. Spring, on the other hand, broke tradition by reading as a book-lengthed diary entry about matters domestic.
Summer is a little bit of everything which preceded it. We have three sections of mini-essays (the usual fare), one diary entry (like Spring all about Knausgaard's navel, lint and all), and one historical fiction diary entry taking us back to WWII--- a little "falling in love with the prisoner" bit reminiscent of the Stockholm Syndrome on steroids.
You might say, then, that Summer has a little to please everyone. Or that it is disjointed and thus manages to please no one. But to me, no matter what the genre, Knausgaard is Knausgaard. His voice is unique and familiar. Though he admits to being notoriously shy and pretends to love loneliness (I think he conflates "loneliness" with "being alone," two different animals), you feel convinced that he could sit and warmly chat with you for hours. Or maybe, if only you had his e-mail, that you could write him some admiring missive to which he would happily reply.
As if.
But still, that's the deal with Knausgaard. I think I've read everything of his except the last of the My Struggle books, which I am wary of becoming weary of.
So maybe I'll leave it at this for now and wonder about myself. Why do I like reading this guy? Maybe it's because men, unlike women, are horrible at friendships. Maybe his familiar and completely open style beguiles us into believing that we have a particularly close friend---like we did when we were 12---and it fills a void we don't think needs filling but does because, like Karl, we're all lone wolves of a sort, proud and stubborn and dumb in our walls.
Yeah. That's it. From KOK's walls to ours. The dream of open air and friendship.
Summer is a little bit of everything which preceded it. We have three sections of mini-essays (the usual fare), one diary entry (like Spring all about Knausgaard's navel, lint and all), and one historical fiction diary entry taking us back to WWII--- a little "falling in love with the prisoner" bit reminiscent of the Stockholm Syndrome on steroids.
You might say, then, that Summer has a little to please everyone. Or that it is disjointed and thus manages to please no one. But to me, no matter what the genre, Knausgaard is Knausgaard. His voice is unique and familiar. Though he admits to being notoriously shy and pretends to love loneliness (I think he conflates "loneliness" with "being alone," two different animals), you feel convinced that he could sit and warmly chat with you for hours. Or maybe, if only you had his e-mail, that you could write him some admiring missive to which he would happily reply.
As if.
But still, that's the deal with Knausgaard. I think I've read everything of his except the last of the My Struggle books, which I am wary of becoming weary of.
So maybe I'll leave it at this for now and wonder about myself. Why do I like reading this guy? Maybe it's because men, unlike women, are horrible at friendships. Maybe his familiar and completely open style beguiles us into believing that we have a particularly close friend---like we did when we were 12---and it fills a void we don't think needs filling but does because, like Karl, we're all lone wolves of a sort, proud and stubborn and dumb in our walls.
Yeah. That's it. From KOK's walls to ours. The dream of open air and friendship.
August 31, 2020
Šitą keistą keistų metų vasarą pabaigiau su Knausgårdo kvartetu, paskutine jo dalim. Kitaip nei ankstesnės dalys, skaitėsi sunkiai ir galiausiai baigėsi tuo, kad nebemėgstu Knausgårdo, sutapatinau biografinį autorių su pasakotoju ir heitinu heitinu heitinu.
Kvartetas buvo sumanytas kaip enciklopedija (kiekvieną tomą sudaro trumpos esė apie beleką - medžius, stulpus, šliužus, dviračius, niežulį etc etc) savo negimusiai dukrai, praadėtas rašyti būsimiems tėvams sužinojus apie nėštumą. Enciklopedinius įrašus pertraukdavo laiškai negimusiai dukrai, žiauriai gražios paveikslų reprodukcijos, visos knygos išleistos ant neįtikėtino grožio popieriaus - džiaugsmas pirštams.
Vis tik dukra gimė Knausgårdui bebaigiant "Žiemą", tada jis rašė visokius pasižadėjimus, kaip rašys toliau ir pažindins ją su pasauliu. Ok. Bet "Vasaroje" tos naujagimės mergaitės praktiškai nėra. Esė fragmentai yra arba bendri pamąstymai (medžiai yra aukšti), arba asmeninės asociacijos, o dienoraščių fragmentuose Knausgårdas apmetinėja romaną apie realiai gyvenusią moterį arba pasakoja kur ką su kuo grilino ir kaip važinėjo su dvirka su sūnum. Koks yra tokio teksto tikslas? Prasidėjęs kaip labai aiškios užduoties (paaiškinti vaikui pasaulį), tekstas baigėsi kaip nelabai kam įdomių tėvo pasakojimų kratinys. Skaitydama negalėjau nusikratyt minties: ar aš norėčiau, kad man būtų adresuota knyga, kad ji būtų apie mane? Dar tokios būsenos, kai aš nekontroliuoju nei savo veiksmų, nei reakcijų, nedrįstu nueiti į wc, todėl pakartotinai apsisisioju mašinoj ir tėvui žiauriai smirda. Kokia yra tokios pasakojimo vertė? "Tikrumas"? Autentika? Biografija? Kam?
Antras dalykas, kurį galvojau skaitydama, buvo apie rašymą kaip apie išpirką. Kodėl, už ką? - nežinau, bet Knausgardas kaip visiškai no big deal aprašo daugybę dalykų, kuriuos skaityti tiesiog nemalonu. Kaip jis gana brutaliai uždaužo šikšnosparnį. Kaip jis visiškai atsitapatinęs žiūri į gyvūnus, kuriuos laikė - kates (prasidėjo dominavimo kovos, tai vieną nunešė užmigdyt), šunį (užkniso kad visą laiką sekioja iš paskos ir K nusprendė, kad grynai dėl šuns jis netampa geru rašytoju, tai atsikratė), kaip vaikystėj mokykloj buvo tyčiojamasi iš klasioko (aišku viskas atpasakota su visais vardais). Kaip vaikai jo prašo nusipirkt po antrą porciją ledų, jis sako: ne, negalima, nes aš neleidžiu, bet aš tai pavyzdžiui galiu, - ir nueina, nusiperka antrą porciją ir valgo prieš vaikus. Paskui stebisi, kodėl jie tokį šūdą atsimena ir dar priekaištauja, čia juk bajeris buvo. Visoj knygoj Knausgardas nuduoda tokį sociopatišką, visiškai empatijos neturintį stebėtoją, ir gal tas mane galiausiai priveikė - tikslo ir rezultato nesutapimas, kai pasinaudoji realiu asmeniu (dukra), kad papasakotum apie dar daugiau savo nuotykėlių ir minčių. Eik tu šikt, Knausgårdai.
Creepy vieta - kaip jis perkerpa žirklėmis šliužą (KODĖĖĖĖL?):
O čia - ne apie žiaurumą, šiaip apie drabužių ir vartojimo kultūrą. Galvoju, kad tai kažkaip savitai dera su jo rašymais:
Iš pradžių skaitydama raukiausi, bet paskui kažkaip net beveik susigraudinau. Prisiminiau, kaip gėda yra mokykloj ar univere vaikščioti skylėtom alkūnėm, kaip nefaina, kai džinsai ne visai tavo dydžio, atsisėdus atsiknoja ir per pamoką klasiokai į tą atsiknojimą prikiša trintukų ir pieštukų. Kažkokia visa apimanti gėda, tarsi kertanti tau per kelius. Ir pagalvojau - kokia laisvė yra apie tai nebegalvoti ar bent mažiau galvoti, galėti (sau leisti) išeit pavedžiot šuns neplauta galva ar nutrinta maike a la naktiniais. Kaip smagu yra pasitaisyti ką nors, kas "dar geras"! Ir kokia keistai kitokia yra ta Knausgårdo aprašyta savijauta / savo vietos ir atsakomybių supratimas.
Nu o galiausiai - Knausgårdas didysis psichologas:
Blemba, ot sėkmingas šlykštuko portretas, aš jį dabar taip nuoširdžiai heitinu - ir jaučiuosi už jį teisesnė! Norisi kritikuoti kiekvienu klausimu, niekinti ir linkėti nesėkmių. Kaži, ar tai vis dėlto talentas - šitokiu būdu parašyti savo gyvenimą. Gal jis kaip tik - l. talentingas rašytojas, manipuliuojantis mano emocijom? Meistriškai manipuliuojantis? Dar labiau heitinu, bjaurybė.
Kvartetas buvo sumanytas kaip enciklopedija (kiekvieną tomą sudaro trumpos esė apie beleką - medžius, stulpus, šliužus, dviračius, niežulį etc etc) savo negimusiai dukrai, praadėtas rašyti būsimiems tėvams sužinojus apie nėštumą. Enciklopedinius įrašus pertraukdavo laiškai negimusiai dukrai, žiauriai gražios paveikslų reprodukcijos, visos knygos išleistos ant neįtikėtino grožio popieriaus - džiaugsmas pirštams.
Vis tik dukra gimė Knausgårdui bebaigiant "Žiemą", tada jis rašė visokius pasižadėjimus, kaip rašys toliau ir pažindins ją su pasauliu. Ok. Bet "Vasaroje" tos naujagimės mergaitės praktiškai nėra. Esė fragmentai yra arba bendri pamąstymai (medžiai yra aukšti), arba asmeninės asociacijos, o dienoraščių fragmentuose Knausgårdas apmetinėja romaną apie realiai gyvenusią moterį arba pasakoja kur ką su kuo grilino ir kaip važinėjo su dvirka su sūnum. Koks yra tokio teksto tikslas? Prasidėjęs kaip labai aiškios užduoties (paaiškinti vaikui pasaulį), tekstas baigėsi kaip nelabai kam įdomių tėvo pasakojimų kratinys. Skaitydama negalėjau nusikratyt minties: ar aš norėčiau, kad man būtų adresuota knyga, kad ji būtų apie mane? Dar tokios būsenos, kai aš nekontroliuoju nei savo veiksmų, nei reakcijų, nedrįstu nueiti į wc, todėl pakartotinai apsisisioju mašinoj ir tėvui žiauriai smirda. Kokia yra tokios pasakojimo vertė? "Tikrumas"? Autentika? Biografija? Kam?
Antras dalykas, kurį galvojau skaitydama, buvo apie rašymą kaip apie išpirką. Kodėl, už ką? - nežinau, bet Knausgardas kaip visiškai no big deal aprašo daugybę dalykų, kuriuos skaityti tiesiog nemalonu. Kaip jis gana brutaliai uždaužo šikšnosparnį. Kaip jis visiškai atsitapatinęs žiūri į gyvūnus, kuriuos laikė - kates (prasidėjo dominavimo kovos, tai vieną nunešė užmigdyt), šunį (užkniso kad visą laiką sekioja iš paskos ir K nusprendė, kad grynai dėl šuns jis netampa geru rašytoju, tai atsikratė), kaip vaikystėj mokykloj buvo tyčiojamasi iš klasioko (aišku viskas atpasakota su visais vardais). Kaip vaikai jo prašo nusipirkt po antrą porciją ledų, jis sako: ne, negalima, nes aš neleidžiu, bet aš tai pavyzdžiui galiu, - ir nueina, nusiperka antrą porciją ir valgo prieš vaikus. Paskui stebisi, kodėl jie tokį šūdą atsimena ir dar priekaištauja, čia juk bajeris buvo. Visoj knygoj Knausgardas nuduoda tokį sociopatišką, visiškai empatijos neturintį stebėtoją, ir gal tas mane galiausiai priveikė - tikslo ir rezultato nesutapimas, kai pasinaudoji realiu asmeniu (dukra), kad papasakotum apie dar daugiau savo nuotykėlių ir minčių. Eik tu šikt, Knausgårdai.
Creepy vieta - kaip jis perkerpa žirklėmis šliužą (KODĖĖĖĖL?):
As I lifted it up it squirmed slowly in my grasp, and when I placed it between the blades of the sharp scissors its tentacles moved. I pushed the handles of the scissors together, and as the blades sliced into its body I heard it screaming, low and shrill. (p. 47)
O čia - ne apie žiaurumą, šiaip apie drabužių ir vartojimo kultūrą. Galvoju, kad tai kažkaip savitai dera su jo rašymais:
In our home no one works hard enough for their clothes to get either dirty or sweaty, and we have a washing machine, a dryer and a drying cabinet and enough money to buy new clothes every time a garment gets a hole or a tear in it or a button comes loose or a zip gets stuck [...]. (p. 333)
Iš pradžių skaitydama raukiausi, bet paskui kažkaip net beveik susigraudinau. Prisiminiau, kaip gėda yra mokykloj ar univere vaikščioti skylėtom alkūnėm, kaip nefaina, kai džinsai ne visai tavo dydžio, atsisėdus atsiknoja ir per pamoką klasiokai į tą atsiknojimą prikiša trintukų ir pieštukų. Kažkokia visa apimanti gėda, tarsi kertanti tau per kelius. Ir pagalvojau - kokia laisvė yra apie tai nebegalvoti ar bent mažiau galvoti, galėti (sau leisti) išeit pavedžiot šuns neplauta galva ar nutrinta maike a la naktiniais. Kaip smagu yra pasitaisyti ką nors, kas "dar geras"! Ir kokia keistai kitokia yra ta Knausgårdo aprašyta savijauta / savo vietos ir atsakomybių supratimas.
Nu o galiausiai - Knausgårdas didysis psichologas:
To kill a ladybird, however, is something few people do with a light heart. This is most likely because its appearance is pleasing to us. (p. 399)
Blemba, ot sėkmingas šlykštuko portretas, aš jį dabar taip nuoširdžiai heitinu - ir jaučiuosi už jį teisesnė! Norisi kritikuoti kiekvienu klausimu, niekinti ir linkėti nesėkmių. Kaži, ar tai vis dėlto talentas - šitokiu būdu parašyti savo gyvenimą. Gal jis kaip tik - l. talentingas rašytojas, manipuliuojantis mano emocijom? Meistriškai manipuliuojantis? Dar labiau heitinu, bjaurybė.
August 18, 2018
I’ve now read three volumes from the Seasons Quartet – all but Spring. The series started with Knausgaard addressing his fourth child in utero. By now she’s two years old but still the recipient of his nostalgic, slightly didactic essays on seasonal topics, as well as the “you” some of his journal entries are written to. I wasn’t so keen on Autumn, but Winter and Summer are both brilliant for how they move from tangibles – ice cream cones, camping, fruit flies, seagulls, butterflies and the circus – into abstract notions of thought, memory, identity and meaning. That fluidity is especially notable here when Knausgaard drifts in and out of the imagined experience of an elderly woman of his grandfather’s acquaintance who fell in love with an Austrian soldier and abandoned her children during World War II.
I especially enjoyed two stories: traveling with his son to Brazil for a literary festival where he ran into English surgeon Henry Marsh, and fainting at an overcrowded publisher party in London. He’s always highly aware of himself (he never gives open-mouthed smiles because of his awful teeth) and of others (this woman at the party is desperate to appear young). But more so than these stand-out events and his memories of childhood, he gives pride of place to everyday life, things like chauffeuring his three older children to their various activities and shopping at the supermarket for barbecue food. “By writing it I reveal that not only do I think about it, I attach importance to it. … I love repetition. Repetitions turn time into a place, turn the days into a house.” I highlighted dozens of passages in the Kindle book. I’ll need to catch up on Spring, and then perhaps return to the My Struggle books; I only ever read the first.
I especially enjoyed two stories: traveling with his son to Brazil for a literary festival where he ran into English surgeon Henry Marsh, and fainting at an overcrowded publisher party in London. He’s always highly aware of himself (he never gives open-mouthed smiles because of his awful teeth) and of others (this woman at the party is desperate to appear young). But more so than these stand-out events and his memories of childhood, he gives pride of place to everyday life, things like chauffeuring his three older children to their various activities and shopping at the supermarket for barbecue food. “By writing it I reveal that not only do I think about it, I attach importance to it. … I love repetition. Repetitions turn time into a place, turn the days into a house.” I highlighted dozens of passages in the Kindle book. I’ll need to catch up on Spring, and then perhaps return to the My Struggle books; I only ever read the first.
August 19, 2023
Hvala mu na sva četiri godišnja doba, dao mi je mnogo materijala za razmišljanje i piskaranje po dnevnicima 🖤
July 30, 2021
''Tako je bilo svaki put kada bi mi se u životu otvorila vrata slobode, uvek sam osećao preveliku krivicu da bih prošao kroz njih. A da krivicu ubijem, što slobodan život zahteva, za to nikada nisam imao dovoljno snage.''
Četvrti, i poslednji dio Knausgorovog serijala ''Četiri godišnja doba'', smješten je u ljetom obojenu Švedsku, autorovu bližu okolinu, dvorište i sive pješčane plaže.Sačinjen od kombinacije prethodnih dijelova - opisa svakodnevih predmeta i pojava i autorovog dnevnika, ova knjiga predstavlja melanholičnu posvetu ljetu, kada su sve boje, mirisi i osjećanja intenzivni, život često oslobođen obaveza, a odlazak na kupanje svakodnevna rutina.
U svojim dnevničkim zapisima Knausgor se posebno osvrće na proces stvaralaštva, kako u književnosti, tako i u drugim granama umjetnosti, ali i roditeljstva kroz prizmu svog odrastanja, provedenog u strahu od očevog autoriteta, čija se nit još uvijek provlači kroz njegove postupke.
Tetralogija nastala kao dugo pismo svojoj najmlađoj ćerki, u svom poslednjem dijelu donosi pregršt topline, bezbrižnosti i radosti svojstvene ljetu, dok prepušteni zvjezdanim noćima i zujanju insekata vjerujemo da će sve biti u redu.
Četvrti, i poslednji dio Knausgorovog serijala ''Četiri godišnja doba'', smješten je u ljetom obojenu Švedsku, autorovu bližu okolinu, dvorište i sive pješčane plaže.Sačinjen od kombinacije prethodnih dijelova - opisa svakodnevih predmeta i pojava i autorovog dnevnika, ova knjiga predstavlja melanholičnu posvetu ljetu, kada su sve boje, mirisi i osjećanja intenzivni, život često oslobođen obaveza, a odlazak na kupanje svakodnevna rutina.
U svojim dnevničkim zapisima Knausgor se posebno osvrće na proces stvaralaštva, kako u književnosti, tako i u drugim granama umjetnosti, ali i roditeljstva kroz prizmu svog odrastanja, provedenog u strahu od očevog autoriteta, čija se nit još uvijek provlači kroz njegove postupke.
Tetralogija nastala kao dugo pismo svojoj najmlađoj ćerki, u svom poslednjem dijelu donosi pregršt topline, bezbrižnosti i radosti svojstvene ljetu, dok prepušteni zvjezdanim noćima i zujanju insekata vjerujemo da će sve biti u redu.
May 15, 2018
Now we come to Summer, the finale of the quartet Knausgård began with Autumn. But this summer doesn't follow the Spring that precedes it -- two years have seemingly passed. In the first two books Knausgård is addressing his as yet unborn daughter, his fourth child, who is born in the final pages of Winter. Consisting of essays on many diverse topics, they were a form of journal to introduce this daughter to the world. Spring was a departure. Taking place over the period of one day, he tended to his family, their mother mysteriously absent despite the presence of a newborn. Her struggles finally are brought to light, and I was curious what Summer would bring. It is a culmination of promises made during the course of the earlier books. Again, he is addressing his youngest daughter, again he only refers to the older children as they relate to her (your eldest sister, your brother), and this, rightfully called his magnum opus, diverts into new territory with elements found in the earlier books -- there are essays on numerous topics from salt to ladybugs, and there are autobiographical pieces that run on at length in which he addresses this toddler, forging memories she will have no recollection of that she can learn in later life. There are also longish memories of an old woman from World War II era, also told in first person, some transitions taking place within the same paragraphs. As with all of Knausgård's work, this is immersive, educational, heartfelt, challenging.
January 10, 2022
Iako ispod nivoa autobiografskih prethodnika, iako na trenutke ponavljajući i na ivici da ga proguta ponor manirizma, iako bolno neuspešan da stvori mini roman unutar glavnog toka (nisu svi Pol Oster), Knausgor i dalje osvežava i smiruje.
Pritom, letnji dnevnik je zapravo više zapis o prirodi no o društvu, više o insektima no o ljudima, više o životu dvorišta no unutrašnjosti kuće, takoreći mini enciklopedija biologije koja cvrči, zuji, huči, rasipa boje i slavi život na pravo naturalistički način, kako njegovom veličanstvu letu i dolikuje.
I dalje sposoban da pokrene karneval asocijacija i paralela na svakodnevicu koju živimo, da probudi festival sećanja na događaje iz prošlosti naizgled beznačajne, one koji ne bi ni trebali da imaju mesto u kapacitetima dugotrajne memorije. I dalje uspeva da deluje, dotičući unutrašnjost nežno i iskreno, i dalje je bolno neophodan, kao beg, ne iz svakodnevice već pravo u nju.
Pritom, letnji dnevnik je zapravo više zapis o prirodi no o društvu, više o insektima no o ljudima, više o životu dvorišta no unutrašnjosti kuće, takoreći mini enciklopedija biologije koja cvrči, zuji, huči, rasipa boje i slavi život na pravo naturalistički način, kako njegovom veličanstvu letu i dolikuje.
I dalje sposoban da pokrene karneval asocijacija i paralela na svakodnevicu koju živimo, da probudi festival sećanja na događaje iz prošlosti naizgled beznačajne, one koji ne bi ni trebali da imaju mesto u kapacitetima dugotrajne memorije. I dalje uspeva da deluje, dotičući unutrašnjost nežno i iskreno, i dalje je bolno neophodan, kao beg, ne iz svakodnevice već pravo u nju.
July 15, 2021
Karl Ove Knausgård: Dobår dån, ti si letnje dete, ovå knjigå morå då ti se nåjviše dopådå?
Ja: Zapravo, najmanje mi se dopala!
Karl Ove Knausgård: Štååååååå?
Ja: Previše si se raspisao Uve, previše.
Karl Ove Knausgård: Åli, moj måli penis, skuše, breze, bubåmåre, dnevnici, ujedi ose, ženå iz Drugog svetskog råtååååå...
Ja: Previše, Uve, previše - 3,5/5.
Ja: Zapravo, najmanje mi se dopala!
Karl Ove Knausgård: Štååååååå?
Ja: Previše si se raspisao Uve, previše.
Karl Ove Knausgård: Åli, moj måli penis, skuše, breze, bubåmåre, dnevnici, ujedi ose, ženå iz Drugog svetskog råtååååå...
Ja: Previše, Uve, previše - 3,5/5.
September 23, 2018
Will review after I get back from Boston.
February 9, 2022
'In estate' è uno zibaldone di pensieri, meditazioni, pagine di diario, ricordi, divagazioni, brevi racconti autobiografici, intervallati da splendidi acquerelli di Anselm Kiefer che rappresentano l’estate. Non tutte le pagine sono alla stessa altezza. Com’è risaputo, quando uno scrittore sfonda, gli editori improvvisamente depongono le forbici e pubblicano volentieri qualunque cosa egli scriva: e vale ovunque, e per tutti. E forse è giusto così.
Knausgard, lo ammette lui stesso, non è dotato di immaginazione. In compenso è capace di buttar giù innumerevoli pensieri, alcuni originali e interessanti, altri meno, su qualunque tema, in una bellissima prosa; in compenso è uomo dotato di immenso spirito di osservazione, di curiosità instancabile, di grande intensità vitale. Nell’arco di un’estate passata con la famiglia in un giardino svedese, tutto, intorno a lui, diventa oggetto di riflessione: vespe e biciclette, prugne e tosaerba, bambini e cubetti di ghiaccio, moscerini e lenze da pesca, gelati e irrigatori, e ancora il bucato steso al sole, il barbecue, le mietitebbiatrici nei campi, le nuotate e i ricordi di antiche nuotate, il ticchettio dei granchi pescati sul fondo della barca, il senso ormai dimenticato del campeggio, certi momenti magici intrisi di malinconia. Nell’insieme, si ha l’impressione di vivere con lui l’estate, profondamente e intensamente assaporandola come sempre si vorrebbe saper fare.
Da giovane, consideravo la massima di Cicerone, secondo il quale per essere felici bastavano un giardino e una biblioteca, un’espressione tipicamente borghese, una verità adatta alle persone noiose e di mezza età, lontanissima da quella che volevo diventare. Forse la pensavo così perché mio padre sembrava ossessionato dal giardino, c’erano periodi in cui vi trascorreva tutto il suo tempo libero. Adesso, che anch’io sono noioso e di mezza età, ho capitolato e mi sono arreso. (…) Leggo la Bibbia, dove si sente “il rumore dei passi del Signore Dio che passeggiava nel giardino alla brezza del giorno”. Mi piace questa frase, alla brezza del giorno, risveglia qualcosa in me, la sensazione di profondità delle giornate soleggiate d’estate, che hanno in sé qualcosa dell’eternità, e poi nel pomeriggio soffiano i venti dal mare, crescono le ombre quando il sole sta tramontando in cielo e da qualche parte nelle vicinanze i bambini ridono.
Knausgard, lo ammette lui stesso, non è dotato di immaginazione. In compenso è capace di buttar giù innumerevoli pensieri, alcuni originali e interessanti, altri meno, su qualunque tema, in una bellissima prosa; in compenso è uomo dotato di immenso spirito di osservazione, di curiosità instancabile, di grande intensità vitale. Nell’arco di un’estate passata con la famiglia in un giardino svedese, tutto, intorno a lui, diventa oggetto di riflessione: vespe e biciclette, prugne e tosaerba, bambini e cubetti di ghiaccio, moscerini e lenze da pesca, gelati e irrigatori, e ancora il bucato steso al sole, il barbecue, le mietitebbiatrici nei campi, le nuotate e i ricordi di antiche nuotate, il ticchettio dei granchi pescati sul fondo della barca, il senso ormai dimenticato del campeggio, certi momenti magici intrisi di malinconia. Nell’insieme, si ha l’impressione di vivere con lui l’estate, profondamente e intensamente assaporandola come sempre si vorrebbe saper fare.
Da giovane, consideravo la massima di Cicerone, secondo il quale per essere felici bastavano un giardino e una biblioteca, un’espressione tipicamente borghese, una verità adatta alle persone noiose e di mezza età, lontanissima da quella che volevo diventare. Forse la pensavo così perché mio padre sembrava ossessionato dal giardino, c’erano periodi in cui vi trascorreva tutto il suo tempo libero. Adesso, che anch’io sono noioso e di mezza età, ho capitolato e mi sono arreso. (…) Leggo la Bibbia, dove si sente “il rumore dei passi del Signore Dio che passeggiava nel giardino alla brezza del giorno”. Mi piace questa frase, alla brezza del giorno, risveglia qualcosa in me, la sensazione di profondità delle giornate soleggiate d’estate, che hanno in sé qualcosa dell’eternità, e poi nel pomeriggio soffiano i venti dal mare, crescono le ombre quando il sole sta tramontando in cielo e da qualche parte nelle vicinanze i bambini ridono.
July 6, 2023
predivno.
May 8, 2018
https://msarki.tumblr.com/post/175774...
...even an egalitarian society needs people who distinguish themselves through their superior intelligence, and the function of school is not primarily to convey knowledge but to differentiate, so that the intelligent students end up on the right shelf, while all the others are taught that there is no difference between people, so that later they will accept being governed by the intelligent.
A third of the book was vintage Knausgård. The rest of it was typical of the first two installments of the series, Autumn and Winter. Not a big lover of that style of personal reflection. The problem being that little of Knausgård’s personality comes through.
...placed side by side fullness of life can never compete with intensity…
Karl Ove Knausgård has a brilliant mind and is extremely interesting when in his confessor mode and in the midst of questioning himself and his motives. Sad to say this last installment fell far short of the brilliance and intensity found in his third in the series titled Spring. Nonetheless, it is always a pleasure to read Knausgård. An example of why I read him follows:
...That too is something I realise when I look out of this window, and there is something strangely comforting about it, that we notice the world while we are passing through it, but it takes no notice of us. That is one of the tasks of literature, to remind us of our insignificance and make us understand that our own way of producing meaning is merely one of many possible in the world, along with the forest, the plains, the mountains, the sea and sky. The world is untranslatable but it is not incomprehensible, as long as you know the simple rule that nothing of what it expresses through its myriad lives and creatures is followed by a question mark, only by exclamation marks.
...even an egalitarian society needs people who distinguish themselves through their superior intelligence, and the function of school is not primarily to convey knowledge but to differentiate, so that the intelligent students end up on the right shelf, while all the others are taught that there is no difference between people, so that later they will accept being governed by the intelligent.
A third of the book was vintage Knausgård. The rest of it was typical of the first two installments of the series, Autumn and Winter. Not a big lover of that style of personal reflection. The problem being that little of Knausgård’s personality comes through.
...placed side by side fullness of life can never compete with intensity…
Karl Ove Knausgård has a brilliant mind and is extremely interesting when in his confessor mode and in the midst of questioning himself and his motives. Sad to say this last installment fell far short of the brilliance and intensity found in his third in the series titled Spring. Nonetheless, it is always a pleasure to read Knausgård. An example of why I read him follows:
...That too is something I realise when I look out of this window, and there is something strangely comforting about it, that we notice the world while we are passing through it, but it takes no notice of us. That is one of the tasks of literature, to remind us of our insignificance and make us understand that our own way of producing meaning is merely one of many possible in the world, along with the forest, the plains, the mountains, the sea and sky. The world is untranslatable but it is not incomprehensible, as long as you know the simple rule that nothing of what it expresses through its myriad lives and creatures is followed by a question mark, only by exclamation marks.
September 11, 2019
“Ad kişinin tüm kimliğini içeren bir torba veya bavul gibi.Öldüğümüzde,kişiliğimize ilişkin tüm duyguları ve düşünceleri içeren bu bavuldan bir şey kalmıyor geri”
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Sonbahar,kış,ilkbahar,yaz. Sınıf panosunda,yanyana dizilmiş afişleri hatırlayın.Sonbaharda yerlerdeki yaprakları toplayan çocukların,kışta soba üzerindeki kestanelerin,karla kaplı tepelerin gösterildiği..Knausgaard da bu döngüyü anlatıyor aslında, afişlere değil sayfalara döküyor içindekileri.
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Ellisine yaklaşmış bir adamın dördüncü çocuğunu beklemesiyle başlamıştı sonbahar. O adam biraz şaşkındı,korkusu da vardı elbet.Kışın soğukluğuydu belki içindeki.Bahara gelince yeşeren doğaya tutundu,ağaçları geri kalan pek çok şeyden ilginç buluyordu mesela.Sonra yaz geldi. Beklediği çocuğu iki yaşında oldu bile,yazmaya devam etti,gördü ve gördüklerinin bir parçası da oldu o adam..
Knausgaard,huş ağaçlarını anlattı,salyangozları,yuva’yı,dondurmayı..
Knausgaard bir döngüyü anlattı,hepimizin hayatlarındaki gündelik telaş ve gündelik duruluşları.Gelgitleri,büyük fırtınaları,endişeleri de.
Yazdan sonra sonbahar yine gelecek.Yeşilliğinde dinlendiği ağaçların yaprakları binbir renge bürünecek.
O yine eskiyi anımsayıp yine de yeni zamanın içinde kalmayı başaracak.
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Buruk bir okumaydı Yaz. Size hiç ağırlık vermeyen,aksine varlığından mutluluk duyduğunuz bir misafiri uğurlamak gibi.
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Sonbahar,kış,ilkbahar,yaz. Sınıf panosunda,yanyana dizilmiş afişleri hatırlayın.Sonbaharda yerlerdeki yaprakları toplayan çocukların,kışta soba üzerindeki kestanelerin,karla kaplı tepelerin gösterildiği..Knausgaard da bu döngüyü anlatıyor aslında, afişlere değil sayfalara döküyor içindekileri.
.
Ellisine yaklaşmış bir adamın dördüncü çocuğunu beklemesiyle başlamıştı sonbahar. O adam biraz şaşkındı,korkusu da vardı elbet.Kışın soğukluğuydu belki içindeki.Bahara gelince yeşeren doğaya tutundu,ağaçları geri kalan pek çok şeyden ilginç buluyordu mesela.Sonra yaz geldi. Beklediği çocuğu iki yaşında oldu bile,yazmaya devam etti,gördü ve gördüklerinin bir parçası da oldu o adam..
Knausgaard,huş ağaçlarını anlattı,salyangozları,yuva’yı,dondurmayı..
Knausgaard bir döngüyü anlattı,hepimizin hayatlarındaki gündelik telaş ve gündelik duruluşları.Gelgitleri,büyük fırtınaları,endişeleri de.
Yazdan sonra sonbahar yine gelecek.Yeşilliğinde dinlendiği ağaçların yaprakları binbir renge bürünecek.
O yine eskiyi anımsayıp yine de yeni zamanın içinde kalmayı başaracak.
.
Buruk bir okumaydı Yaz. Size hiç ağırlık vermeyen,aksine varlığından mutluluk duyduğunuz bir misafiri uğurlamak gibi.
June 17, 2023
,,𝐏𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐯 𝐢 𝐳𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐧, 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐨, 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐠 𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐜̌𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐤𝐥𝐚 𝐬𝐢 𝐤𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐢 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚 𝐭𝐮 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐧𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐮 𝐯𝐨𝐝𝐮."
Možda su pogođeni lokacija i trenutak, ali pomalo neočekivano, ovo mi je najbolja knjiga tetralogije. Dok u prethodne tri nisam mogla da izdržim Knausgorovo filozofiranje, ovde mi je prijalo i mogla sam da se povežem sa tim mislima. Na nekoliko mesta u dnevnicima, Knausgor menja perspektivu i obraća nam se kroz nepoznatu ženu iz Malmea koja se priseća Drugog svetskog rata, tačnije događaja iz tog perioda koji joj je zauvek promenio život. Pomalo čudno, možda i nepotrebno, ali meni se njen glas toliko svideo i potvrdilo mi je da bih Knausgora mnogo bolje prihvatila kroz fikciju.
Možda su pogođeni lokacija i trenutak, ali pomalo neočekivano, ovo mi je najbolja knjiga tetralogije. Dok u prethodne tri nisam mogla da izdržim Knausgorovo filozofiranje, ovde mi je prijalo i mogla sam da se povežem sa tim mislima. Na nekoliko mesta u dnevnicima, Knausgor menja perspektivu i obraća nam se kroz nepoznatu ženu iz Malmea koja se priseća Drugog svetskog rata, tačnije događaja iz tog perioda koji joj je zauvek promenio život. Pomalo čudno, možda i nepotrebno, ali meni se njen glas toliko svideo i potvrdilo mi je da bih Knausgora mnogo bolje prihvatila kroz fikciju.
July 9, 2022
Att läsa Knausgård är att se världen för första gången. Och det kan man gärna göra igen och igen. På sistone har jag läst många böcker av honom och jag vill utnämna honom till gestaltningens mästare. Han kan alltså med sin särpräglade rena stil skriva om vad som helst och det väcker mitt intresse. Här blandar han essäer och dagboksanteckningar med vackra bilder av Anselm Kiefer.
Det finns en fiktiv karaktär (en äldre dam faktiskt) som mellan varven får ta över berättarjaget i dagboken. I början tycker jag det är konstigt och spretigt. Men sen blir texten om henne nästan intressantare än den autofiktiva. Mest blir hon ett uttryck för att Knausgård kan göra hur fan han vill i sina texter. Han är en diva!
Man kan inte jaga den heliga graalen med barnvagn, sa Karin Blixen och det är Knausgård som uppmärksammat mig på citatet, men är det inte just vad han gör?! Hans drivkraft tycks vara att tränga in i motsättningen mellan den oändlighet som bor i oss, och vår kroppsliga begränsning. Han vill penetrera det viktiga. Årstidskvartetten är ett fyrdelat brev till en yngsta dotter. De fyra böckerna har till stor del handlat om barn och om att vara förälder. Det som han generöst delade i Min kamp del två, hur feminiserad han kände sig som nybliven pappa, tycks han ha kommit över. Han framstår här som tryggare i sin föräldraroll, eller snarare övermodig. Vid ett av många tillfällen när han äter glass med sina barn, undrar ett av barnen om han kan få en glass till. Inte du, men jag, svarar han och köper ytterligare en glass till sig själv och slickar i sig framför ögonen på barnen. Det är en typ av maktmissbruk som jag finner djupt obehaglig. Man kanske inte kan döma en far som ”bara” köper en glass till sitt barn men visst är det elakt och konstigt provokativt? Ibland när han skriver om sig själv exempelvis skammen över att prata så mycket om sig själv, känner jag igen mig, men ibland blir jag skrämd av hans person och lynne.
Det här är dock den första boken av Knausgård som jag inte får lust att citera något ur. Det finns självklart avsnitt jag fastnar för, exempelvis det han skriver om campingplatser och pengar. Att lyx hör ihop med kostnad och inte frihet. Här förklarar han det som han fick kritik för i sin debutbok, en vuxen lärare som inleder en relation med ett barn, med att det var längtan efter att själv vara barn som var drivkraften till den texten. Det låter väldigt mycket som en efterkonstruktion i mina öron, men vad vet väl jag.
Jo! Jag vet att han har fel när han (ironiskt?) hävdar att det saknas bra författare som har hund. Kerstin Ekman, Vigdis Hjorth, Per Olov Enquist, Lina Wolff och Torgny Lindgren är några exempel som motsäger det.
Bäst av de fyra i den här serien finner jag Våren.
Det finns en fiktiv karaktär (en äldre dam faktiskt) som mellan varven får ta över berättarjaget i dagboken. I början tycker jag det är konstigt och spretigt. Men sen blir texten om henne nästan intressantare än den autofiktiva. Mest blir hon ett uttryck för att Knausgård kan göra hur fan han vill i sina texter. Han är en diva!
Man kan inte jaga den heliga graalen med barnvagn, sa Karin Blixen och det är Knausgård som uppmärksammat mig på citatet, men är det inte just vad han gör?! Hans drivkraft tycks vara att tränga in i motsättningen mellan den oändlighet som bor i oss, och vår kroppsliga begränsning. Han vill penetrera det viktiga. Årstidskvartetten är ett fyrdelat brev till en yngsta dotter. De fyra böckerna har till stor del handlat om barn och om att vara förälder. Det som han generöst delade i Min kamp del två, hur feminiserad han kände sig som nybliven pappa, tycks han ha kommit över. Han framstår här som tryggare i sin föräldraroll, eller snarare övermodig. Vid ett av många tillfällen när han äter glass med sina barn, undrar ett av barnen om han kan få en glass till. Inte du, men jag, svarar han och köper ytterligare en glass till sig själv och slickar i sig framför ögonen på barnen. Det är en typ av maktmissbruk som jag finner djupt obehaglig. Man kanske inte kan döma en far som ”bara” köper en glass till sitt barn men visst är det elakt och konstigt provokativt? Ibland när han skriver om sig själv exempelvis skammen över att prata så mycket om sig själv, känner jag igen mig, men ibland blir jag skrämd av hans person och lynne.
Det här är dock den första boken av Knausgård som jag inte får lust att citera något ur. Det finns självklart avsnitt jag fastnar för, exempelvis det han skriver om campingplatser och pengar. Att lyx hör ihop med kostnad och inte frihet. Här förklarar han det som han fick kritik för i sin debutbok, en vuxen lärare som inleder en relation med ett barn, med att det var längtan efter att själv vara barn som var drivkraften till den texten. Det låter väldigt mycket som en efterkonstruktion i mina öron, men vad vet väl jag.
Jo! Jag vet att han har fel när han (ironiskt?) hävdar att det saknas bra författare som har hund. Kerstin Ekman, Vigdis Hjorth, Per Olov Enquist, Lina Wolff och Torgny Lindgren är några exempel som motsäger det.
Bäst av de fyra i den här serien finner jag Våren.
August 23, 2023
The final book in Knausgaard's Seasons series is told mostly through diary entries and short essays with titles like "Campsites", "Cats", and "Ice Cream", which Knausgaard writes to his toddler daughter, introducing her to the world around her, leaning into his own memory and his environment. In a class I took a year or so ago, we were assigned excerpts from Winter, the project's second book, but I decided to officially kick off the series by reading Summer cover-to-cover (since it is summer right now).
It took me a little to settle into this one (his diary entries especially felt slow during the first half, and, yes, I rolled my eyes at all the dick talk), but by the final third of the book I was totally immersed in Knausgaard's mind and world. I so admired his unexplained forays into the fictional story he began telling about a Norwegian woman who leaves her family for an Austrian officer during the war, to the point where I forgot I was even reading Knausgaard a few sentences into each passage; having read only My Struggle Book 1 and Inadvertent, a speech he gave on craft, this was my first experience with any of his fiction (and I was not disappointed).
Toward the end of book, and so toward the end of the summer, I felt a much stronger emotional pull & gravity. Maybe because it's late summer now, as I was reading? And I felt that he was writing distinctly about my current moment, our emotions in sync. "Plums" nearly made me cry, or maybe didn't bring me too near to tears but rather invoked that big welling of emotion in my stomach and chest. And "Giant's Cauldron", "Salt", "Skin", "Ground Wasps", "Crab Fishing", and, of course, "Ladybirds" right at the end will stick with me.
It took me a little to settle into this one (his diary entries especially felt slow during the first half, and, yes, I rolled my eyes at all the dick talk), but by the final third of the book I was totally immersed in Knausgaard's mind and world. I so admired his unexplained forays into the fictional story he began telling about a Norwegian woman who leaves her family for an Austrian officer during the war, to the point where I forgot I was even reading Knausgaard a few sentences into each passage; having read only My Struggle Book 1 and Inadvertent, a speech he gave on craft, this was my first experience with any of his fiction (and I was not disappointed).
Toward the end of book, and so toward the end of the summer, I felt a much stronger emotional pull & gravity. Maybe because it's late summer now, as I was reading? And I felt that he was writing distinctly about my current moment, our emotions in sync. "Plums" nearly made me cry, or maybe didn't bring me too near to tears but rather invoked that big welling of emotion in my stomach and chest. And "Giant's Cauldron", "Salt", "Skin", "Ground Wasps", "Crab Fishing", and, of course, "Ladybirds" right at the end will stick with me.
October 14, 2021
Leto je. Hodam bos zelenim travnjakom dok mi rosne vlati trave posle kratkotrajne letnje kiše golicaju članke i kvase kratke pantalone boje mahovine. Posežem za krvavocrvenim ribizlama u bašti i pitam se kako jedan tako mali grozd, kako te male bobice mogu biti toliko sočne i izazvati takvu eksploziju zadovoljstva u ustima? Malo sluzavo stvorenje, sporo i uzdignute glave, bez ikakvog straha, počinje da mi se penje na nogavicu. Kako je njemu život bezbrižan! Kad nasluti opasnost, samo se pobedonosno uvuče u svoju ljušturu.
Pri samoj pomisli na najtoplije godišnje doba, vidim sebe u čamcu na obližnjoj reci sa cigaretom u ustima i čašom crnog vina, gledam u zvezde , te sitne mrvice koje se stidljivo cakle na vedrom prostranom nebu dok tišinu remeti pirkavi vetrić koji nečujno stiže, poneki zrikavac iz obližnje trave i hor žaba koje pozivaju na druženje.
A u letnje popodne, dok miris roštilja i skuše okuplja malo odabrano društvo, koje uz maestralnog Stinga i činiju prefinjenog sladoleda uživa u prijatnom razgovoru i rasteruje ose koje stižu na bar jedan srk slasnih đakonija,oseća se primetan dolazak hladnih i svežijih dana koji uz vruće kestenje i toplu odeću polako preuzimaju pijedestal. Leto se polako oprašta i zadovoljno, na svom biciklu i bubamarom na reveru, odlazi spokojno na svoj zasluženi odmor.
Ja sam Karl Uve Knausgor. Pisac, otac i ljubitelj prirode. Ovo su sitnice koje čine moj život. Stvari koje su obeležile moje detinjstvo i koje i dan danas igraju glavnu ulogu u mom životu i bude predivna sećanja i uspomene. A šta to vama boji dane i ulepšava vam svakodnevicu? Da li ste svesni svega što vas okružuje? Zaplovite lađom godišnjih doba i saznajte šta vas može odvesti ka sreći i dobrom raspoloženju. Možda je to upravo nešto što vam je na dohvat ruke, potrudite se da ga ne ispustite.
Pri samoj pomisli na najtoplije godišnje doba, vidim sebe u čamcu na obližnjoj reci sa cigaretom u ustima i čašom crnog vina, gledam u zvezde , te sitne mrvice koje se stidljivo cakle na vedrom prostranom nebu dok tišinu remeti pirkavi vetrić koji nečujno stiže, poneki zrikavac iz obližnje trave i hor žaba koje pozivaju na druženje.
A u letnje popodne, dok miris roštilja i skuše okuplja malo odabrano društvo, koje uz maestralnog Stinga i činiju prefinjenog sladoleda uživa u prijatnom razgovoru i rasteruje ose koje stižu na bar jedan srk slasnih đakonija,oseća se primetan dolazak hladnih i svežijih dana koji uz vruće kestenje i toplu odeću polako preuzimaju pijedestal. Leto se polako oprašta i zadovoljno, na svom biciklu i bubamarom na reveru, odlazi spokojno na svoj zasluženi odmor.
Ja sam Karl Uve Knausgor. Pisac, otac i ljubitelj prirode. Ovo su sitnice koje čine moj život. Stvari koje su obeležile moje detinjstvo i koje i dan danas igraju glavnu ulogu u mom životu i bude predivna sećanja i uspomene. A šta to vama boji dane i ulepšava vam svakodnevicu? Da li ste svesni svega što vas okružuje? Zaplovite lađom godišnjih doba i saznajte šta vas može odvesti ka sreći i dobrom raspoloženju. Možda je to upravo nešto što vam je na dohvat ruke, potrudite se da ga ne ispustite.
June 13, 2018
Wenn ein Jahr im Sommer endet, dann kann es kein schlechtes sein. Und wenn ein Jahr vom Autor Karl Ove Knausgård beschrieben wird, dann sowieso nicht. Mit dem Buch "Im Sommer" vollendet der Norweger seine vierbändige Serie um die Jahreszeiten, seine jüngste Tochter und die Weltbetrachtungen auf sehr hohem Niveau. Nach der kurzen Exkursion zur Form seiner autobiografischen Reihe mit "Im Frühling", bietet dieser erstaunlich reichhaltige Band nämlich erneut eine vielzahl an Essays, Gedankenspiele und Tagebuchausschnitte. Genau durch diese Mischung all seiner geliebten Textformen erschafft Knausgård ein Erlebnis, das extrem tief geht und wunderbar in der Sonne schillert.
Im Verbund mit der halbwegs fiktiven Erzählung der Lebensereignisse seiner Frau zu den Zeiten des zweiten Weltkrieges offenbart der Autor das unglaublich feine Spiel mit der Wahrnehmung, dass er in jedem seiner Sätze verpackt hat. Denn erneut werden die Grenzen zwischen Wahrheit und erfundener Literatur verwischt, die Texte agieren gegenseitig als Spiegel und Projektionsflächen. Nicht nur wird somit mehr Licht auf die bisherigen Veröffentlichungen geworfen, es regt auch zu weiteren Überlegungen an.
Die Essays über Alltagsgegenstände und menschliche Eigenheiten wiederum sind einfach nur grossartig und in ihrer Einfachheit betörend. Verbunden werden sie mit den langen, autobiografischen Beschreibungen des familiären Alltags und weiteren Ausflügen in die inneren Welten von Knausgård. "Im Sommer" ist somit eines der besten Bücher, das ich bisher von ihm lesen durfte.
Im Verbund mit der halbwegs fiktiven Erzählung der Lebensereignisse seiner Frau zu den Zeiten des zweiten Weltkrieges offenbart der Autor das unglaublich feine Spiel mit der Wahrnehmung, dass er in jedem seiner Sätze verpackt hat. Denn erneut werden die Grenzen zwischen Wahrheit und erfundener Literatur verwischt, die Texte agieren gegenseitig als Spiegel und Projektionsflächen. Nicht nur wird somit mehr Licht auf die bisherigen Veröffentlichungen geworfen, es regt auch zu weiteren Überlegungen an.
Die Essays über Alltagsgegenstände und menschliche Eigenheiten wiederum sind einfach nur grossartig und in ihrer Einfachheit betörend. Verbunden werden sie mit den langen, autobiografischen Beschreibungen des familiären Alltags und weiteren Ausflügen in die inneren Welten von Knausgård. "Im Sommer" ist somit eines der besten Bücher, das ich bisher von ihm lesen durfte.
November 7, 2020
Baš sam se obradovala vidjevši da je stigla zadnja Knausgårdova knjiga iz kvadrilogije o godišnjim dobima. "Ljeto" sam počela čitati još prije tri tjedna i nisam se htjela požurivati. Veliko mi je zadovoljstvo čitati njegova razmišljanja i pokušati shvatiti njegove osjećaje, njegovu osobnost.
Bilo je ovdje i nekih stvari koje mi nisu bile zanimljive, bez obzira na njegovo prilično mi blisko pisanje, i zato četvorka. Međutim, ipak mislim da je knjiga sjajna i preporučujem je svima koji vole ili cijene Knausgårda ili im je barem zanimljiv, znatiželjni su. Eto.
(P. S. To ipak ne znači da ću se ponovno uhvatiti "Moje borbe". Nisam još spremna na nju. Njih.)
Bilo je ovdje i nekih stvari koje mi nisu bile zanimljive, bez obzira na njegovo prilično mi blisko pisanje, i zato četvorka. Međutim, ipak mislim da je knjiga sjajna i preporučujem je svima koji vole ili cijene Knausgårda ili im je barem zanimljiv, znatiželjni su. Eto.
(P. S. To ipak ne znači da ću se ponovno uhvatiti "Moje borbe". Nisam još spremna na nju. Njih.)
September 27, 2026
“...there is something strangely comforting about it, that we notice the world while we are passing through it, but that it takes no notice of us.”
The seasons quartet has been a reread up until this point, as I never actually read the final volume, so this was an exciting end to my year-long trek through this. The longest volume of the quartet, it really embodies the feel of summer, containing little side quests and conversations and musings on life and art, amidst the neverending routines of domestic life.
We return to the family as Knausgaard’s wife, Linda, is staying in a facility following a mental health breakdown. Knausgaard must take care of the house and children in her absence, finding pockets of time here and there to write and philosophize about life, art, and the world. Similar to other volumes, the book contains many short essays on a variety of topics; these are split up by some diary-entry-style writing for each month of summer. This balance is very good - I don’t think 400 pages of mini-essays would have held readers’ attention, but this back-and-forth between those and his diary entries mirrors well the somewhat chaotic routines he is juggling.
The mini-essays, for what it’s worth, are not totally random, either. I like that the book opens with some outdoorsy topics, like lawn sprinklers and chestnut trees, so we share his perspective of looking out into the yard. Many of these essays are bigger than their topics suggest, like the one about bats, in which Knausgaard kills a bat in his new home while his mother is in the hospital.
“I tend to think that I see my children, who they are, and that I am an OK father to them. This little incident made me understand how shut up within myself I really am.”
I’ve always had complicated feelings towards Knausgaard’s writing on child-rearing. He is good at it. Very good, actually. He explores the endless dailiness, the mundaneness and labor of it, with a preciseness that is so relatable to just about any parent. As his older kids have grown out of the baby stage in this book, he finds himself in the role of chauffeur more often than not, driving them to their various social activities and camps. Some parents perceive free time opening up when you don’t have to labor so much over diaper changing and toddler tantrums, but nothing opens up as they age, really, you just shift the labor to other things like driving.
He writes of all this with a simplicity, though. There’s some serious compartmentalization going on, to remain so even-keeled through the trenches of parenthood, and you wonder how Knausgaard is achieving that. Is it because he is a man? Eh. Is it because this is not parenthood in the U.S. but in a country that offers better support to families? Maybe. Moreso, it seems to be because he is a person who rigidly adheres to certain stabilities in his life and knows without question he will not waver in those things for the sake of anyone else, even his kids.
“In theory, I understand that a person’s inner being is so rich that it can change and live out other aspects of the self, move in wholly new directions, but in practice my experience is that I am the same person and do the same things, think the same and feel the same as I always have… ‘But what if it feels good to be lonely?’ I said. ‘It is never good to be lonely,’ she said. I think she is wrong, but maybe I think so because that would threaten my story, who I am to myself, which I stick to in all weathers and every season, even if it means waking up dejected every morning, and even if I am constantly harassed by feelings of guilt and shame…”
Some question why Knausgaard had so many kids when he clearly is a person who doesn’t like chaos and uncertainty and who needs to cultivate a solitary life. I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think he dislikes that he had kids, per se…there is just an understanding - by him and the whole family - that he will take time for himself every day, no matter who else has what else going on. The Knausgaard household is largely run by Knausgaard’s emotions. And so while he will sacrifice time and labor for domestic tasks and childrearing and he will take the time to drive his children around and go on bike rides with them, it is all done with the knowledge that he will take time for himself later. Many parents - women primarily - don’t have access to that privilege.
“To kill guilt, as a free life demands, is something I have never had the strength for.”
He says a lot of interesting things like this, that sort of contradict his actions. Famously, much of his autofictional work was written with little to no regard for how it would affect the family being written about (it is said this helped contribute to Linda’s mental breakdown, though I understand she doesn’t blame him). The My Struggle epic contains a loooooot of personal stories about him and his family, so it is crazy to think it didn’t occur to him to seek their guidance on including so much private detail. So when he suggests he doesn’t have the strength to kill guilt, I have a hard time reconciling that with literally every semi-autobiographical thing he’s written.
KOK and autism has not been something I’ve thought about much, but admittedly I kept coming back to it repeatedly while reading this volume. Knausgaard himself has only mentioned it casually, not in the sense that he actually has that diagnosis, but that he writes and publishes things with little forethought to any emotional fallout to come from friends and family involved in the stories. In this book, there’s the compartmentalization of his family life and his interior/artistic life of solitude. He loves his kids, but more as intellectual exercises than as independent humans and often sees them through the lens of his own emotions about them. It’s weird, because it makes him very effective at juggling domestic life, but at what cost to the people weaved into it? And I think he does question some of this here, which is, I guess, a start.
“That the outside world in this way gives shape to the inner and that art is merely a feeble reflection of reality might have been a depressing thought since it makes us so earth- and place-bound, so claustrophobically shut up inside sameness, if it hadn’t been for the richness of this sameness, which opens the world, even its smallest part, towards the infinite.”
Linda returns from her stay in the mental health facility. Not much is said about her, when she’s away or when she comes back, and it’s an odd exclusion given how monumental her breakdown and leave initially played out. I mean, this is, objectively, a huge thing to happen to the family, and they’re going on here like she never existed. The passage of time has maybe contributed to that - you eventually have to move on and get back to life’s routines. This is also close to the time of their divorce and would explain why she’s so absent from the musings in KOK’s writings at this point. Still, what a god damn whirlwind for these kids.
I’m eager to get to the Morning Star series, of which I’ve only read the first book in so far. I do like living in KOK’s domestic writing, it does inspire me to want to live differently somehow (I do my best every day I’m on this volatile spinning rock to pretend I’m just a little worker bee in Richard Scarry’s Busytown; KOK is the adult equivalent, I guess). That said, he’s problematic in his artistry, and I also have Linda’s work on the TBR, because I don’t want to have gotten too in the weeds with only his telling of the story.
“The world is untranslatable but it is not incomprehensible, as long as you know the simple rule that nothing of what it expresses through its myriad lives and creatures is followed by a question mark, only by explanation marks.”
December 29, 2019
140th book for 2019.
Short meditations on Knausgård day-to-day life; most a little pompous and pretentious.
2-stars.
Short meditations on Knausgård day-to-day life; most a little pompous and pretentious.
2-stars.
August 11, 2021
Fin sommerlektyre. Gode, dype og spennende refleksjoner om svært dagligdagse temaer.
July 4, 2024
Genijalno, kao i cela tetralogija
August 26, 2025
This rivals Spring as my favorite of the Seasons Quartet. A ruthless, patient observational eye. We all think about everything, but are we thinking enough? I esp love the bike sections and even got embroiled in the fictionalized history of a Norwegian woman who falls in love with a German Nazi soldier in WW II. Are these worth reading even if you haven't read Karl Ove's masterpiece My Struggle? Well, I have met at least two serious readers who are reading the Seasons first so I guess perhaps it's become a gateway drug, akin to Consider the Lobster for David Foster Wallace fans.
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