Min Kamp 2 PDF/EPUB ì Min Kamp PDF/EPUB ²

Min Kamp 2 [Reading] ➻ Min Kamp 2 By Karl Ove Knausgård – Buyprobolan50.co.uk Min kamp Andre bok er en studie i ekstremrealisme en rasende nedsenkning i det daglige i det hverdagslige i ydmykhet og selvydmykelser og sterke fascinasjonerDet er en roman om kjærlighet og vennskap Min kamp Andre bok er en studie i ekstremrealisme en rasende nedsenkning i det daglige i det hverdagslige i ydmykhet og selvydmykelser og sterke fascinasjonerDet er en roman om kjærlighet og vennskap foreldre og svigerforeldre om livet med små barn i en svensk by om skrivingen som et forsøk på forløsning en overskridelse av egne Min Kamp PDF/EPUB ² begrensninger.


10 thoughts on “Min Kamp 2

  1. Glenn Russell Glenn Russell says:

    Oh Karl Ove you capture the heart break of the lovesick hypersensitive teenager that speaks to our own lost teenage years And thanks for Book 2 writing of your life during your 20s and 30s married raising children dealing with the whole urban banana A reader might think very self centered of a writer to pen 6 thick volumes of his life but you Karl Ove are able to tap into the culture's pulse and our collective modern human experience reading your books is almost like reading our own autobiographyHere is a section of My Struggle Book 2 I found particularly insightful where Karl Ove reflects on his dealings with the people in his life he tells us when he is with other men and women he feels empathetic and bound to them; but when he is by himself his feelings for them dissolve “Everyday life with its duties and routines was something I endured not a thing I enjoyed not something that was meaningful or that made me happy I always longed to be away from it So the life I led was not my own I tried to make it mine that was my struggle because of course I wanted it but I failed the longing for something else undermined all my efforts What was the problem? Was it the shrill sickly tone I heard everywhere that I couldn’t stand the one that arose from all the pseudopeople and pseudoplaces pseudoevents and psudoconflicts our lives passed through that which we saw but did not participate in and the distance that modern life in this way had opened up to our own actually inalienable here and now? If so if it was reality involvement I longed for surely it should be that which I was surrounded by that I should be embracing?” This is but a sliver of Karl Ove’s musing at the time on the dynamics of living an everyday city life as husband father friend acuaintance; he continues for several pages expanding on such topics as our standardized homogenized shrinking world until he is obliged to participate in his daughter’s Rhythm Time class a occasion he finds to be one of the most excruciatingly painful experiences of his life he feels a powerful passionate sexual attraction to the graceful gorgeous Rhythm Time teacher but also feels completely humiliated sitting on the floor shaking a rattle and singing children's songs It’s this linking the details of his own experience and conflicted feelings with a broader philosophizing on society and culture art and literature I find so compellingAnd a reflection from further on in the novel “For who brooded over the meaninglessness of life any? Teenagers? They were the only ones who were preoccupied with existential issues and as a result there was something puerile and immature about them and hence it was doubly impossible for adults with their sense of propriety intact to deal with them However this is not so strange for we never feel strongly and passionately about life than in our teenage years when we step into the world for the first time as it were and all our feelings are new feelings So there they are with their big ideas on small orbits looking this way and that for an opportunity to launch them as the pressure builds And who is it they light upon sooner or later but Uncle Dostoyevsky? Dostoyevsky has become a teenager’s writer the issue of nihilism a teenager issue”Ironically the many pages of this book are filled to the brim with brooding on existential issues forever uestioning the meaning and meaninglessness of life as if the author’s feelings are perpetually new feelings as if every morning he steps into the world for the first time with all the awkwardness discomfort unease and even clumsiness of a teenager unhesitatingly opening his heart to the freuent hard edges and occasional tenderness of those around himThe narrator reminds me of those characters from the novels of Dostoyevsky who swept up in the intensity of the moment in a gush of emotional frenzy say ‘to hell with the future’ and stack all their chips on one spin of the roulette wheel or burn their life savings in a fire For example here is Karl Ove back in his room totally drunk after hearing a woman he loves tell him sorry she’s not interested “I went into the bathroom grabbed the glass on the sink and hurled it at the wall with all the strength I could muster I waited to hear if there was any reaction Then I took the biggest shard I could find and started cutting my face I did it methodically making the cuts as deep as I could and covered my whole face The chin cheeks forehead nose underneath the chin At regular intervals I wiped away the blood with a towel Kept cutting Wiped the blood away But the time I was satisfied with my handiwork there was hardly room for one cut and I went to bed” Observing Karl Ove as he makes his North American book tour this spring there isn’t any evidence of a face cut to shreds One beauty of a novel is the author has the latitude even in an autobiographical novel like this one many of his extended family refuse to have anything to do with him to create imaginatively And this play of creative imagination makes all the difference Although the author draws explicitly from his own life—the first person narrator is named Karl Ove Knausgaard and he uses the real names of his wife children parents and friends I am reading these books as a novel since I sense a good portion is embellished or simply made up Made up or real in the end this is a novel of emotional extremes Linda the love of his Karl Ove’s life breaths hot blooded fire melodramatic mercurial uick tempered and occasionally violent and destructive Yet these two lovers remain together and have three children And with every additional child their household fire rages with ferocity How on earth do they do it? 600 pages of Book 2 tells the tale One last note on a key piece of Book 2 Karl Ove’s ongoing conversation with his philosophical and literary friend Geir and his ongoing conversation with his philosophic inner self For instance Karl Ove alone “Fictional writing has no value documentary narrative has no value The only genres I saw value in which still conferred meaning were diaries and essays the types of literature that did not deal with narrative that were not about anything but just consisted of a voice the voice of your own personality a life a face a gaze you could meet What is a work of art if not the gaze of another person? Not directed above us not beneath us but at the same height as our own gaze Art cannot be experienced collectively nothing can art is something you are alone with You meet its gaze alone”


  2. Manny Manny says:

    from Min kamp 1It was now than two weeks since I had published my review of Min kamp 1 and during that time I had not posted anything new Every day I stared at the screen tried to begin abandoned my unsuccessful attempt after half an hour Maybe I would never again manage to produce a meaningful piece of writing I checked my mail for the third time that afternoon Someone I didn't know said they thought it was amazing that I could read the books in the original Norwegian There's nothing much to it I wrote back I lived in Sweden for ten years and Norwegian is closely related After I had replied I was filled with self loathing How could I waste my time on such trivia? Once I vowed I would stop doing it but I knew I was too weak willed I went downstairs to have a cigaretteBut you don't smoke said my girlfriend Not when I returned I do when I'm reviewing Knausgård I said in an irritated voice I went into the kitchen and began to unstack the dishwasher I put each item back in its correct place the glasses directly over the sink the cups next to them the flat plates in the cupboard above the counter the bowls beneath it the cutlery in the plastic holder opposite the wooden spoons in the box that had once held a bottle of Old Pulteney You don't really want to be doing this do you? asked Not as she came over to put her arms around me What would you rather be doing instead? Reading Min kamp 2 I snapped I just need time to finish it Not began to weep uietly and I immediately regretted my harsh words She is a very fragile person who has never recovered from being raped by her step father at the age of 12 Or possibly it was something else that had happened to her I have a poor memory for this kind of thing As usual I found myself apologizingCome on said Not as she dried her eyes Let's go for a walk You can bring your book I put on my sandals took a pair of sunglasses from the bowl near the door dropped the Knausgård in a blue cloth shopping bag and opened the door We took the elevator down passing the fourth third second and first floors on our way to the bottom Although I had already done so earlier I checked the mailbox but there was nothing new I opened the street door We went out on to rue du Mont Blanc then turned left down rue de Chantepoulet So what do you think your review will be like? asked Not I don't know I said I think the review form is exhausted The last worthwhile thing posted on Goodreads was Geoff Wilt's review of Finnegans Wake There are only two reviews on the site that are worth reading Everything else is simply mediocre Including my work I look at it and all I can think is it's just stuff about books It's without value DishonestWe had now reached the lake With the setting sun behind us the scene resembled one of Rothko's paintings At the bottom the darker blue of the water merged into the grey blue of the Salève then into the lighter shades of the sky A smear of white on one side marked the Jet d'Eau; the darker spots in the foreground resolved themselves into a family of ducks slowly paddling upstream against the current of the Rhône You don't need to write about the book said Not as she took my hand Just write about your life Whatever you like You're an excellent writer You could write about going to the bathroom and people would read itYou know I said you might be on to something thereto Min kamp 3


  3. Lee Klein Lee Klein says:

    The original Norwegian editions of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s six volume My Struggle series presented in thick 500 page installments have purportedly sold than a half million copies and won lots of prizes If rumors of such critical and commercial success are true even if only in Scandinavia it’s good news for humanity since these volumes lack traditional plot let alone anything approaching bondage vampires or wizards Maybe it helps that Knausgaard a respected author of two novels before he’d even started My Struggle has a bold sensationalist attention grabbing title appropriated from Hitler’s polemical autobiography which forces readers to contrast his representation and impressions of his writingfamily life with the Führer’s concerns? Or maybe the series has stormed across Scandinavia because its scope and approach suggest Proust’s In Search of Lost Time but instead of tracing the past in rapturous velveteen serpentine effusions – every passage suffused with chrysanthemum dust – My Struggle presents something comparatively without affectation a steady solid uotidian flinty albeit likely to burst into tears like sueezing water from a rock representation of and insight into what it’s like for one man to be aliveIn Fall 2012 both my mother and a grad school friend recommended the first volume to me saying it sounded “up my alley” It was way up there in approach accessibility unpredictability unexpected humor and heft For a few years I’ve been saying that fiction that feels like fiction is not my favorite sort of fiction I’ll turn on a novel for an overwrought simile comparing a Gatorade cap to a crown of thorns Maybe it’s just me but I prefer fiction that feels unlike contemporary literary fiction I’m not necessarily a fan of experimental or explicitly unconventional fiction either Turns out I just seem to prefer fiction that feels real Twain said something like the difference between fiction and non fiction is that fiction must be absolutely believable Thomas Wolfe the guy who wrote Look Homeward Angel not the guy in the white suit who wrote Bonfire of the Vanities said that fiction is fact selected arranged and charged with purpose Both of these assertions apply to Knausgaard’s recent work except I don’t think the author at least as he presents himself in the My Struggle series charges his selections and arrangements of fact with an explicit purpose other than trying to get as close as he can to the core of life No conventional plot therefore yet nevertheless engaging consistently insightful and almost recklessly sincereThis series is a multivolume masterpiece of sincerity It’s epic literary autobiography worthy of the traditional and recent meanings of the modifier epic A Norwegian living in Sweden may have written it but it fulfills David Foster Wallace’s prophecy about post ironic fiction in the United States “The next real literary ‘rebels’ in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti rebels born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single entendre principles Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in US life with reverence and conviction” By now at least as Knausgaard presents Sweden in this volume the notion of “US life” can be expanded to include Western Civilization’s so called First World including Scandinavia Like DFW Knausgaard covers significant territory across apparently infinite pages but he doesn’t do it in a look Ma no hands backflipping with a smile sorta way All the formal elements of traditional fiction are in place sans gimmickry No attention getting footnotes or images or power points or graphs or numbered lists or Danielewskisms No masturbatory flights of language en route to the celestial sublime No silly set pieces or big dance numbers at the end No talking pieces of poo Nothing included for a joke No excessive modifiers or anything that feels like it’s not part of the author’s attempt to stay as close as possible to what he perceives as the core of things the honest truth of life He also realizes that such a project may seem megalomaniacal and he addresses this than once never mythologizing himself always his worst critic always forcing himself to submit to humilityWhat happens in this engrossing readable plot less stretch of 543 beautifully formatted pages published by Archipelago? Mostly child care Instead of the mythologized image of the author of the past we find a 21st century house husband considering himself feminized compared to how fathers once raised children living in a homogenized culture thanks to international influence as in Murakami American fast food joints are name checked including Burger King and Subway “Europe was merging and into one large homogeneous country The same the same everything the same” Karl Ove is a 30 something Norwegian who’s left his first wife and moved to Stockholm where despite this sense of sameness he can’t read clues revealing minute social gradients as he can in Norway The author’s good friend Geir another Norwegian writer living in Sweden rants about the differences between Norway and Sweden the way some in Philadelphia may occasionally rant about the differences between Philly and New York Sweden is essentially orderly In Norway people bump into each other on the street Norwegian academics don’t dress so wellBook 1 ended with the author cleaning up the mess his recently deceased alcoholic father made literally and figuratively As with Book 2 it started in the recent past and presented a surprisingly fresh vision of the author with young children at playgrounds struggling with plastic contraptions meant to convey children across town As in the first volume these opening sections create a sympathetic image of a manly cigarette smoking Scandinavian author overrun by three children loving them deeply trying to control them aware that this image of a father who gets down on the floor and plays with a rattle with his kids is relatively recent and yet by now pervasiveHis own upbringing had been strict his father distant and scary and so Karl Ove struggles with his father’s spirit inside him He has a history with drink too In one riveting recollected scene in which he drinks himself into a world that’s narrowed to a dark tunnel after the woman who will become the mother of his children humanely rejects him he smashes a glass and uses its largest sharpest shard to shred his faceIn both books this opening fatherhood gambit won me over made me willing to follow him wherever he went In the first volume it’s teen years playing in a terrible band and looking for a place to drink on New Year’s Eve In Book 2 it’s his first days in Stockholm and the story of how he met his wife Linda the woman who helped him become who he is today prize winning successful novelist pushing around three young children in a strollerThe central struggle in this volume is achieving a balance between family and art He wants a family three children like a little gang but he also wants to be left alone to write He has an “all or nothing” mentality so this conflict drives the story It’s all pretty deceptively simple For me society is everything Geir said Humanity I’m not interested in anything beyond that But I am I said Oh yes? Geir ueried What then? Trees I answered He laughed Patterns in plants Patterns in crystals Patterns in stones In rock formations In galaxies Are you talking about fractals? Yes for example But everything that binds the living and dead all the dominant forms that exist Clouds Sand dunes That interests me Oh God how boring Geir said No it isn’t I said Yes it is he saidDavid Foster Wallace’s 1990 essay “E Unibus Pluram Television and US Fiction” concludes with uestions about what will come after postmodern irony “Real rebels as far as I can see risk disapproval The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and sueal shock disgust outrage censorship accusations of socialism anarchism nihilism Today’s risks are different The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn the rolled eyes the cool smile the nudged ribs the parody of gifted ironists the ‘Oh how banal’”To which Knausgaard might reply “For me it was trees and leaves grass and clouds and a glowing sun that was all I understood everything in the light of this”An elaborated elegance makes this series what it is Its patterns and formations feel organic and humble yet troubled and in no way understated The form in the first two volumes at least suggests something like uiet majesty It’s only as complicated as it needs to be with simply dramatized scenes with plentiful short bursts of dialogue summarized scenes stretches of essayistic exposition all in rotation in a way that I comfortably anticipated over time Yet despite what’s essentially a not very experimental form the project itself as a whole seems unconventional almost unhinged Three thousand pages of literary autobiography about a middle aging Norwegian writer and his wife and kids and friends and family? You kidding me? His kids don’t even suffer from Marcusian language pathologies? No empathic immersion in the presentation of other lives? No specific canonical biggie despite the title and physical similarity to Proust’s multivolume masterwork providing explicit formal and thematic support? Of the young writers I had read there was only Jerker Virdborg I liked; his novel Black Crab had something that raised it above the mist of morals and politics others were cloaked in Not that it was a fantastic novel but he was searching for something different That was the sole obligation literature had in all other respects it was free but not in this and when writers disregarded this they did not deserve to be met with anything but contemptBy the time of the second volume’s action Karl Ove has written one well regarded novel but the money is running out He hasn’t written much of anything for four or five years He’s included in an article about writer’s block and authors who’ve only written one novel But he’s searching for something different a way out After seeing Bergman’s production of Ibsen’s “Ghosts” with his future wife he has a model for the sort of work he wants to do in the future The play offers a bright horizon for the author and a guide to the book in the reader’s hands A kind of boundlessness arose something wild and reckless Into it disappeared plot and space what was left was emotion and it was stark you were looking straight into the essence of human existence the very nucleus of life and thus you found yourself in a place where it no longer mattered what was actually happening That was where I had to go to the essence to the inner core of human existenceThis inner core of human existence manifests as conversations with friends dinners at home fights with a Russian alcoholic neighbor who blasts music in the middle of the night irritation with his wife’s inability to pitch in around the house and thereby force him to do all the shopping cooking and cleaning all of which gracefully revolve in the present interspersed with non linearly proceeding backstory This sort of structure after a while feels like associative telescopic stargazing into the past the present naturally filled with expanses of history Inclusion of non linear backstory makes the whole story feel real and alive its edges open and scalloped instead of straight orderly contrived and fictional since memories tend not to appear in order Everyday life with its duties and routines was something I endured not a thing I enjoyed nor something that was meaningful or made me happy This had nothing to do with a lack of desire to wash floors or change diapers but rather with something fundamental the life around me was not meaningful I always longed to be away from it So the life I led was not my own I tried to make it mine this was my struggle because of course I wanted it but I failed the longing for something else undermined all my effortsA half million Scandinavians might like Knausgaard in part because this longing for something meaningful his attempts to find meaning and beauty in the banalities of life his struggles at home and with his artistic ambition are the mark of a conventional protagonist whose obsessive desires are ceaselessly impeded by obstacles It’s a double bind in Knausgaard’s case art impedes family and family impedes art Like Homer Simpson’s famous revelation about alcohol art and family are the cause of and cure for all his problemsIn the second volume there are two exaggeratedly extreme acts the drunken face cutting when younger and the manic immersion that produces his second novel A Time For Everything risking his family for the sake of his art So often I sympathized with the author’s situation I read passages aloud to my wife involving discussions about day care so similar to discussions we’d just had She began referring to the thick suarish hardback as my new best friend As a father of a three month old daughter a writer learning to balance family and art this volume was even up my alley than the first one about teenage drinkingbands and the death of his father Yet despite convergences I would never go at my face with a shard of glass and I would never leave my family to live in an office for weeks to write a novel Of course it’s possible that neither of these extreme actions ever happened It’s possible that these semi sensationalist moments are straight up fiction But it feels wrong to type that as though it betrays a trust established between writer and reader over than 1000 pages at this pointI don’t want to make it seem like this series was written only for me since most likely its revelations about self its honesty with itself and with the reader bring the project close to readers than one But still it’s a rare expanse of recently published prose that opines about Thomas Bernhard in the context of the narrator’s search for what he would do after his second novel “No space was opened up for me in Bernhard everything was closed off in small chambers of reflection and even though he had written one of the most frightening and shocking novels I had read Extinction I didn’t want to look down that road I didn’t want to go down that road Hell no I wanted to be as far from that which was closed and mandatory as it was possible to be Come on Into the open my friend as Hölderlin had written somewhere But how how?”The clear answer to the preceding uestion is the book itself a non annoying narrative loop de loop By the time the above uotation appears on page 409 we have a pretty good idea of how he’ll write his way out I don’t in any way want to suggest that the book runs cutesy metafictional macros on the reader It’s like the second volume begins to catch up to the point in recent history when he began the project Whereupon I foresaw an ending in which Knausgaard makes it to the absolute present completely caught up with himself writing about writing the sentence he’s writing Early on in the second novel he states that the work is its own reward Sitting in a room alone working on what he’s writing is all he really wants There’s something inexplicitly East Asian about his project his interest in naturally occurring patterns as though writing is not about creating another form of narrative entertainment or gaining an audience of readers but a meditation that produces text as traces of where his mind traveled whenever it achieved the solitude he longed for As such the primary enlightenment Knausgaard offers involves humility and endurance presented in uniuely formatted short bursts followed by hard returns amounting to the volume’s thematic climax on page 501 If I have learned one thing over these years which seems to me immensely important particularly in an era such as ours overflowing with such mediocrity it is the followingDon’t believe you are anybodyDo not believe you are somebodyBecause you are not You’re just a smug mediocre little shitDo not believe that you’re anything special Do not believe that you’re worth anything because you aren’t You’re just a little shitSo keep your head down and work you little shit Then at least you’ll get something out of it Shut your mouth keep your head down work and know that you’re not worth a shitThis or less was what I had learnedThis was the sum of all my experienceThis was the only worthwhile thought I’d ever hadAgain part of the struggle for the author is to triage eventual criticism that he’s a self serving megalomaniacal freak He’s successful in this He wins the reader over thanks to what seems like sincere introspection throughout But also through well phrased contempt for unnamed examples of the sort of self serving mediocrities he’s afraid he might be or become Knausgaard succeeds in presenting the particularities of his conflict with such steadiness and clarity that it appeals on a deep level to a large readership There are very few sensationalist details or betrayals of confidence that trigger voyeuristic impulses in readers There’s very little sex for example and when it occurs it’s procreative on a couch after watching a crappy movie Ultimately the sense you get from reading this series the mental and emotional state achieved when silently immersed in its pages is of connection with another human being a man from a distant yet familiar place like yourself in some ways but not in all ways a man concerned with achieving existential fulfillment stability peace In the end the project itself seems like proof that he’s achieved a productive balance There’s a sense that he’s able to write this My Struggle series while maintaining his family Wikipedia says he’s still married to Linda and they live with their three children and he’s clearly lived up to manifesto like spiels about fiction in My StruggleI suppose just because a purported half million Scandinavians have read Knausgaard’s series doesn’t mean I should lump them together But a great novel seems to bring its readers together those who’ve shared an experience each similar yet uniue There’s no uestion that this volume continues a remarkable series that I expect will have long lasting influence at least on me as I gulp down the remaining 2000 plus pages as they appear in English over the next few years If Knausgaard’s project influences a generation of literary autobiographers in theory for now it’s fine with me I’d love to see fiction that feels unlike fiction because it consists of fact selected arranged and charged with the purpose of presenting itself as real Not hyper real reality or semblances seen through the scrim of tasteful artifice but as real as it gets raw unadorned and awesomeIf interested here are my reviews of Books One Three Four and Five


  4. Adam Dalva Adam Dalva says:

    A masterpiece I think it surpasses vol 1 although it is less fun and less immediately accessible If vol 1 was death and childhood this is love and aging and it is perhaps the best depiction of love that I have ever read Family love romantic love courtship Fascinating structure A digression that lasts from p 20 p 527 inside of which is a digression that goes from 70 520 inside of which is one from 105 340 inside of which is one that runs from 125 281 The outermost frame the beginning and the end details the moments that led to the writing of vol 1I read this volume faster than the first somehow and mostly in the basement of my family's french antiue store It knocked me flat Oddly I think most of one of the most simple moments Knausgaard is washing dishes and tired he leans his head forward against the cabinet against the sink for support I'd done this for years And I've thought about this book every time I've washed dishes since


  5. Michael Finocchiaro Michael Finocchiaro says:

    Karl Ove Knausgård's second instalment in the sprawling My Struggle autobiographic roman fleuve is even gripping than its predecessor Perhaps that is because I am also a father roughly the same age as the author but I was truly pulled in head first from the get go This book covers a period coming about 3 5 years after the primary events of Book 1 which was about his father's death Here he has moved to Stockholm leaving his soon to be ex wife in Norway and falls in love with Laura whom he knew at a writer's workshop two decades previously Knausgård's writing style is to open multiple parentheses and close them as you near the end of the book so we start with him in Stockholm writing his second book A Time for Everything and already with three kids He uickly opens a parenthesis to his experiences in Stockholm braving the ice clad sidewalks when his daughter Vanja is about eight months old armed with his stroller and his self effacing courage I enjoyed the episode where he goes to Rhythm Time with Vanja and he is attracted to the musician leading the class while hating the whole principle of being in the class as being too emasculating He excels at portraying this inner tension between his principles and his actions which are so often in contradiction So I stayed put Vanja was eight months old and bewitched by anything that resembled a performance p 77 This sounds so banal but I could really imagine being there for my kid but finding the whole situation ridiculous And my daughter was the same way in terms of bewitchment The text is simple but it conveys the essence of the experience in a way that made it real for me He suffers through this experience and never goes back and has a dinner party that night where we are introduced to his best friend Geir I really enjoyed the character of Geir apparently a common first name in Norway but this is the first time I heard it and his almost diametrically opposed viewpoints to Karl Ove I kind of envied their friendship actually The writing veers off uite often into philosophical and artistic tangents When describing Geir's book about Boxers which he particularly appreciated he makes some interesting observations In abstract reality I could create an identity and identity made from opinions; in concrete reality I was who I was a body a gaze a voice This is where all independence is rooted Including independent thought Geir's book was not only about independence it was also enacted within its terms of reference He described what he saw with his own eyes what he heard with his own ears and when he tried to describe what he saw and heard it was by becoming a part of it p 128 I think this is one of the insights that he had that led him to write Min Kamp after finishing his second book to become part of his own story in a sense In this book we learn a bit about his domestic life and it turns out that he is uite the cook I loved how he described cooking for the dinner party The water was boiling and I added the tagliatelle The oil in the two pots was spitting in the heat I sliced some garlic and put it in took the mussels from the sink dropped them in and placed the lid on top Soon it began to rumble and road I poured in the white wine chopped some parsley and sprinkled it in took the mussels off the hot plate after a few minutes put the tagliatelle in a colander fetched the pesto and everything was ready p 287 I wish that I could cook like this because he makes it all sound so simple Still in the same frame with an 8 month old Vanja he is at a restaurant with her and having a hard time eating without her fussing and pushing his food off the table I leaned over and rummaged through the bag to see if there was something that might keep her occupied for a few minutesA tin lunch box would that do the trick?I removed the cookies and put them on the edge of the table then place the box in front of her took out my keys and dropped them in Objects that rattled and you could take out and put down were just what she needed Satisfied with my solution I sat at the table and began to eatp 380 This all sounds again so simple and banal but if you are a father of a small kid this is precisely the minute to minute things you have to deal with when you continue trying to live your life while being a dad In another parenthesis we learn about how Karl Ove initially met Linda and I will spare you the description of his violent reaction to being unable to connect with her then You'll need to read it for yourself However she also went through a difficult period which she explains to them during a walk which is so pleasantly described We had joined the path running alongside the lake and into the forest The wind had laid bare great swathes of ice In places it was as shiny as glass and reflected the dark sky like a mirror in others it was grey greeenish and grainy like frozen slush Now that the train had passed and the warning bell had stopped ringing there was almost complete silence in the forest Just some rustling and cracking as branches rubbed or the occassional thwack The sueaking of the stroller wheels our own brittle footstepsp 419 I find this writing with the onomatopoeia of thwack so invocative and feel like I am gliding through the forest listening as a voyeur to their conversation Perhaps it is precisely that Big Brothervoyeuristic kind of feeling that makes his writing so addictive This particular walk in the forest continues as KOK thinks about color The soft whiteness and the gaping blackness both were perfectly still all was completely motionless and it was impossible not to be reminded of how much of what surrounded us was dead how little of it all was actually alive and how much space the living occupied inside us p 420 421 This passage reminded me of his monologue about death at the beginning of Book 1 and serves to demonstrate how despite being broken into six books with connecting themes this is a complete and coherent oeuvre A few pages later he is on a visit to his family in Norway for his mother's birthday and Vanja's christening and this makes him philosophical once again but if on occasion we were to raise our gaze to this the only possible thought was one of incomprehension and impotence for in fact how small and trivial was the world we allowed ourselves to be lulled by? Yes of course the dramas we saw were magnificent the images we internalized sublime and sometimes also apocalyptic but be honest slaves what part did we play in them?NoneBut the stars twinkle above our heads the sun shines the grass grows and the earth yes the earth it swallows all life and eradicates all vestiges of it spews out new life in a cascade of limbs and eyes leaves and nail hair and tails cheeks and fur and guts and swallows it up again And what we never really comprehend or don't want to comprehend is that this only happens outside us that we ourselves have no part in it that we are only that which grows and dies as blind as the waves in the sea are blindp 435 That is about as precise a statement of my own atheistic existentialist viewpoint as I could possibly describe and using language which is not high falutin' but down to earth Rolling in the mud actually Later he is out purchasing books for the research into A Time for Everything Some months ago I had seen a picture of some Indians in a canoe They were paddling across a lake in the bows was a man dressed like a bird with its wings outstretched The picture penetrated all the layers of conceptions I had about Indians everything I had read in books and comics and seen in films straight through to reality they had existed They had indeed lived their lives with their totem poles spears bows and arrows alone on an enormous continent blissfully unaware that lives other than theirs were not only possible but also existed It was a fantastic thoughtp 489 I love how this extract describes his thoughts and how he stacks his frames of perception That is truly what this work is about I think different frames of perception about his life and his describing of it to us It cannot possibly be 100% true because he is describing events years in the past and therefore there must be inaccuracies but this is his perception of his own reality that he is unveiling to us as readers and it is intimate and exciting to read The book ends after he finishes the second book and has started to form a few ideas of an autobiographical work the one we are reading naturally and I also as an aspiring writer appreciated the work ethic of four pages a day regardless of the uality That does describe how difficult it is to write to a tI truly enjoyed this book and am looking forward to read about his childhood in Book 3Fino's KOK ReviewsBook 1Book 2Book 3Book 4Book 5Book 6A Time For Everything


  6. Perry Perry says:

    The Epic Side of Truth Wisdom Feel like my soul has turned into steel I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal Not Dark Yet Bob Dylan 1997Prior to reading this I was skeptical about reading a roman à clef based loosely on the author's life? Could he succeed in depicting a seemingly ordinary life as interesting enough to fill 456 volumes? Is he the Scandinavian euivalent of the fat head fiction writers churned out from MFA programs across the nation to dazzle the cognoscenti with a woeful memoir of My Fabulous Agony or worse a supercilious philosophizing intellectual boor who'll shortly lose the reader in his uest to bless the world with intelligence and Mensa mysticism? I skimmed several reviews prior to concluding my worries were misplaced and that Volume 2 subtitled A Man in Love seemed the best place to start the 6 volume set Note each novel is self contained so you can start with any volume and need not fear being sucked into reading any of the other 5 volumes; though if you're like me you'll want to read at least one Knausgard's writing style is so honest hypnotic addictive enduring cozing It's not arrogant hyper intellectual or ranting One reviewer even complemented it as unliterary Reading this was like having over to an anodyne dinner a bright congenial ordinary fellow who's also a world wise Norwegian artist sit down and converse with you on the level for hours discussing ordinary things that happen in the course of life to us all in varied forms such as falling in and out of love in laws parents pets neighbors child rearing reading books being forced to attend a party where you only know a few people and otherwise by those you despise living uarters career moves traveling restaurants music sports work old loves old friends returning to the place you grew up There seems no subject he'll deign to discuss yet he's never boring You'll want to keep buying him drinks to beg him to stayHis explanation for writing this monumental work is found I think in this passageThe only genres I saw value in which still conferred meaning were diaries and essays the types of literature that did not deal with narrative that just consisted of a voice the voice of your own personality a life a face a gaze you could meet What is a work of art if not the gaze of another person? Not directed above us nor beneath us but at the same height as our own gaze Art cannot be experienced collectively nothing can art is something you are alone with You meet its gaze alone Knausgaard reifies Socrates' famous uote that the unexamined life is not worth living With attention to fine detail and genuine inuisitiveness of both the significant and the mundane he helps the reader too find the richness in life revealing that uoting Henry Miller we have only to open up to discover what is already there Reading this book or any of the other volumes is a particularly helpful exercise for the young writer in showing not tellingKnausgaard incredibly winkles the extraordinary out of the ordinary as if it were pearls from oysters And he does so in such a way that's real than reality Italy's La Republica Some examples that are typical in his tale of falling in love with and having children with his current wife What was it that Rilke wrote? That music raised him out of himself and never returned him to where it had found him but to a deeper place somewhere in the unfinishedI have no problem with uninteresting or unoriginal people they may have other important attributes such as warmth consideration friendliness a sense of humor or talents such as being able to make a conversation flow to generate an atmosphere of ease around them or the ability to make a family function but I feel almost physically ill in the presence of boring people who consider themselves especially interesting and who blow their own trumpets But what do you say to have any impact on a man who at one time admired the Spice Girls? I concur with the assessment by the New Yorker's reviewer that Knausgaard has hit on the epic side of truth wisdom


  7. Jessica Jessica says:

    I really really really loved the first one of these but I did not love this one It was at times a slog to get through There were some great moments and I'm glad I finished it because it ended strong but the majority fell into the risky trap of this project and read to me like excerpts from a self absorbed parenting blog detailing what life is like as a successful writer with a family in Sweden spoiler alert in the absence of any other worries medical bills say or the need to do unpleasant work for a living Scandinavians have the leisure to spend days purchasing books and contemplating how miserable they are Sweden does sound annoying in that too good to be tolerable way sort of like Portland but with socialized medicine and an entire class of people gainfully employed in producing culture Plus too dark and cold Anyway My current life is somewhat similar to the one described by Knausgård minus the success and people dropping by regularly to tell me how brilliant and talented and good looking I am I too am stuck home with a baby and while in one way this made the book interesting than it would've been otherwise in another it made me wonder why I should bother reading about his when I have plenty of Struggles of my own yes I get that that's the point but it didn't stop me from wondering itI kept trying to decide why I loved the first one but didn't really have the patience for this Part of it is that bourgie creative class life in present day or very recent Stockholm just isn't nearly as interesting to me as life growing up in Norway in the seventies; there wasn't magic in this one as there was in the first except in a few rare moments and then at the end The first book transcended the mundane casually habitually pretty much constantly while the second was the opposite we got stuck with much less fascinating characters in an infinitely less compelling landscape for hundreds and hundreds of pages Clearly this was the point but again knowing that didn't make it any interesting to readMy other problem and I hate admitting this because I secretly think people are stupid when they demand likable characters so this is me saying that I'm stupid was that I couldn't stand Knausgård or his partner or his friend or really anyone else in the book Much as I'd love to be too high minded to let this trouble me in the absence of captivating plot atmosphere language theme etc I am not and it did His partner seemed miserable he seemed like a dick and I just kept being like Will you unhappy whining people please stop having children? which yes again I do get that that's the point but it didn't make this any of a pleasure to read I know this makes me sound like a moron but there were all these times when he would say something gross about say a disabled person or American Indians or the time he smashed a poor furry bat with a brick I love bats and I'd just be like Why am I doing this dick the courtesy of inhabiting his head? This dramatized a tension that's always made me uncomfortable that as a reader you're having an intimate experience with a person who is than likely not someone you'd ever spend actual time with being as a lot of writers are socially anxious weirdos arrogant assholes or just not people I'd ever want to know or who'd ever want to know me I learned pretty early on it was usually better to avoid meeting my favorite living writers and even to avoid reading interviews with writers or other artists whose work had affected me because their real life personas were always disappointing in a way that disturbed my relationship with their work Knausgård is aware of and interested in this and he forces the issue by being the subject of his book and by being obsessively self reflexive about the uestion of what others including us his readers think of himWriting this review is making me realize that many of the things that made this book interesting were the things that made it not much fun to read However I am a casual ditcher of books I don't enjoy but I stuck this one out and on some level I did feel my struggle was worth it The ending when he returns to Norway and then starts writing the first book is at points almost unspeakably beautiful And being me I cried at the end There are some things he's doing here that are great and in themselves worthwhile I haven't decided yet if I'll keep going to number three probably I will though after a long pause This took me forever to get through but I wouldn't let myself start new novels until I finished it so I've got a major backlog of books that aren't about Karl Ove Knausgård's struggle and I'm looking forward to reading some of those


  8. Geoff Geoff says:

    Book Two of My Struggle makes good on the promise of an ‘epic of the everyday’; toward the end of the book Karl Ove describes his idea of literature as a kind of participation in the gaze of another how only diaries and essays continue to move him as works of literature because that is where one might come closest to inhabiting another’s gaze on the world another’s purview onto being Thus the book he begins to write thus the book we hold in our hands For even here among the ascetic exhaustive disclosure of raw daily living we find metafiction at work “The new sincerity” though? I can’t make the claim People simply do not remember things in this way Autobiographical fiction yes but sincere? I am in no position to ualify this This is unmoored remembrance digressionary autobiographical meanderings extended maundering with an emphasis on the creational aspect of dream recall because again no one remembers like this The language is as spare as ever it is my impression correct or not that not a single metaphor was employed throughout the entirety of these 600 pages The sparseness or attempt at a minimalist precision in the prose at length can give the impression of a kind of austerity severity but the lie to this is given in unexpected moments of dark laughter and lengthy passages where the eye is cleared to apprehend the substructure of sublime beauty a landscape or a scene manifests Karl Ove is especially susceptible to tempering his angst with a rejuvenation of the senses in a kind of nostalgic or aesthetic drawing into the color of the sky the twinkle of the stars the inky night the smell of a forest or salt water the sound of waves the sparkle of snow the rhythms of a busy city the mise en scene of a noisy gathering of people The latter is where I can see a sort of similarity to Proust though I still think it is a lazy critic who attempts to elucidate things about this project in terms of Proust something else is at hand here But there is a similar concentration on personality revealed during extended dialogue and miniscule observation from the narrator Possible influences are revealed in this volume Dostoevsky’s Underground Man and Hamsun being to me the clearest analogs But mostly this is a book about a rootless man attempting to write while managing a marriage and children the primary concern of this book is what it is like to be a father in his mid thirties and the attempt to come to terms with what his life is The impressive thing is that Karl Ove manages to draw us so completely into his almost unremarkable daily concerns and makes them feel so vital to us outside gazing in on the gaze searching out Again the idea that every life is an odyssey an epic no one excluded The adventure of becoming whatever it is you end up becoming That there is a shadow always over our small happinesses and successes and that there is a background of uiet hope behind our failures that grasping our authenticity and our becoming is indeed a struggle Perhaps this resonates the most with those of us who feel we don’t exactly belong in the lives we one day find ourselves living but isn’t this everyone at some point? Karl Ove here in Book Two is cataloging a kind of universal alienation of the individual and he does it with startling success These books he has written are close to our lives we should be glad they are out there for us to inhabit


  9. Darwin8u Darwin8u says:

    A Man in Love The fact that paintings and to some extent photographs were so important for me had something to do with this They contained no words no concepts and when I looked at them what I experienced what made them so important was also non conceptual There was something stupid in this an area that was completely devoid of intelligence which I had difficulty acknowledgng or accepting yet which perhaps was the most important single element of what I wanted to do Karl Ove Knausgård My Struggle Book 2Sometimes writing a review of a book is just about marking the space staking the ground scratching the wall with hard chalk I swim back and forth about how I feel about Knausgaard Hell I swim back and forth about whether I want to spell his last name Knausgaard or Knausgård Right now I don't feel strongly either way Completely ambivalent Sometimes I think Karl Ove's art is his huge capacity for being pretentious and narcissistic but just to be fair I also think the same thing about most artists There is something about the personality of an artist that IS by their nature selfish demanding exhibitionist crying for notice for acclaim for some distant other to meet their gaze catch their pitch experience their trip I think of the story of Picasso's daughter showing him her beautiful new shoes and he takes them and paints them and makes her cry And I mean all this ego art as a good thing I guess what for me sets Karl Ove apart from other fiction artistsauthors is he exposes or at least wants us to THINK he exposes a lot about his life in his art His self is stylized but not hidden He isn't hiding his ego behind another character He makes his ego a character He isn't trying to hide his flaws and boy sometimes there seems to be buckets of flaws or those of his family see Linda or friends He uses those weaknesses like a painter uses shadow or a carpenter uses sandpaper His prose seems to jump between three styles1 Hyper detailed narrative about his life This isn't a straight narrative He will jump back and forth in time He starts with three kids backs up to before he meets Linda progresses through courting marriage babies and during this journey forward will occasionally run back in time as he recalls events or situations that add to his current narrative Anyway this style is the bulk of the book and allows for very descriptive accounts of fights with his wife struggles with family members trips walks meals etc It is like he took his journaldiary and just tossed it in and expanded it 2 Excursions into philosophy In the middle of an event in his life Karl Ove will suddenly digress and spend 3 10 pages discoursing on literature painting angels life death children 3 Excursions into naturecity Not only does he take walks but any movement might lead Karl Ove into a journey into a sunset swarm of birds buildings beach clouds He is painting with words trying to capture in words what a Turner or one of his photographer friends might capture with a lens4 Discussions with friends mainly his close friend Gier These parts accomplish the same things as 2 but as a dialogue with counterpoints instead of a straight inner monologue So here I sit 13 or two books into 'My Struggle' and not yet tired of it My feelings for these books ebb Franzen at his worst and flow Proust at his best depending on the prose and my own mood At times when I'm feeling great and the book seems to be on fleek it all ends up being a groove I was meant to slide down but there are times when the prose seem to be working fine but I'm just not feeling it or when the prose kinds stinks but I seem not to mind very much Thankfully there have been very few instances where me and the novel seem to be mired at the same time I might have lost faith at times in Knausgård as a person but not in what he has written yet and not yet in his role as an artist Over recent years I had increasingly lost faith in literature I read and thought this was something someone has made up Perhaps it was because we were totally inundated with fiction and storiesThe only genres I saw value in which still conferred meaning were diaries and essays the types of literature that did not deal with narrative that were not about anything but just consisted of a voice the voice of your own personality a life a face a gaze you could meet What is a work of art if not the gaze of another person? Not directed above us nor beneath us but at the same height as our own gaze Art cannot be experienced collectively nothing can art is something you are alone with You meet its gaze alone Karl Ove Knausgård My Struggle Book 2


  10. Helle Helle says:

    Though his style and agenda have nothing in common with Virginia Woolf Karl Ove Knausgård too has an outrageous and uncanny ability to mix the banal and the lofty the uotidian and the existential without ever upsetting the balance He deals in short with life and in this process he cuts off all layers of pretension and untruth and reveals the rawness the failures the temporary successes and the anxieties of modern life In this second installment of Knausgård’s massive opus he zooms in on children and relationships on falling in love on his opposing needs for family life and for solitude on trying ultimately to be a good man As in the first book he makes no bones about his shortcomings – this time as a father and as a partner but nor is anyone else spared the brutal honesty of his pen – from his wife’s depressions to his mother in law’s drinking problem – he deals in all of it Although it is an autobiographical novel subseuent interviews have revealed little invention in these revelations; this is his life these are the people in it Characteristically he even chronicles the birth of his first child right down to his wife’s pains primal screams and contractions the too mild anesthetics the intern who had to join the midwife I felt a jolt of déja vu and not for the first time my heart went out to his wifeAs in my recent reading experience of Hilary Mantel’s 2nd installment of the Cromwell series something clicked into place when I began this second volume I was familiar with the confessional tone I knew the main participants and could easily conjure up the scenery again although we move from Norway to Sweden and thus could better sit back and enjoy the journey he took me on And once again part of the attraction of Min Kamp My Struggle is in its recognizability it is both voyeuristic and liberating occasionally also annoying to read of how Knausgård feels emasculated when he walks his child’s pram through Stockholm; how he feels ambivalent about modern life and longs for the renaissance eg he imagines what it would be like to live in a world which Shakespeare is about to enter; how poetry seems an unconuerable land to him and how that makes him feel unworthy yet how he tries to come to terms with it – how he constantly tries to come to terms with all these thoughts and actions and often fails that he considers shortcomings but which most of us are guilty of in different ways all the time Few people bring them out into the open like Knausgård does and presumably that is why some of the reviews in Danish newspapers have claimed that he doesn’t write about himself; he writes about me about all of usIt isn’t all about children and relationships though The main storyline which is never chronological is interspersed with strange anecdotes about friends parents snakes crazy Russian neighbours nature The minute descriptions of the materials of the world – the things in it – sometimes reminded me of American Psycho in its endless listing of items which seemingly serve no purpose other than to act as a kind of backdrop for the likewise endless reflections We get some interesting Norwegian perspectives on Sweden from the exile’s point of view eg on conformity many of which I’ve heard from my Danish friend living in Stockholm Along the route he muses on his own writing on literature on other writers He is reading The Brothers Karamazov while writing this book and complains that while he can’t help reading Dostoevsky he also feels the novel has a hysterical uality to it The existential uestioning he brings into his reading he also demonstrates in some of the dialogue between especially himself and his best friend Geir They have some conversations in the latter half of the book that not only resonated profoundly with things I realized I had thought myself but which also in my view moved the book into a league of its own He dips in and out of second hand bookshops buying obscure and well known books alike He heads for a café has a coffee and a cigarette and reads for so long that he arrives home too late for supper He is both an unapologetic reader and writer He says at one point Listen af ting jeg gerne ville læse var lang som et ondt år meaning roughly The list of books I wanted to read was as a long as a year of evil the latter part being a Danish and presumably Norwegian saying which underlines exactly how he feels chained to his books whether as a reader or a writer His writing is not necessarily a labour of love It is what he feels he must do There is a Nordic melancholia that pervades the book At times it – he – was too much and I had to put aside his ruthless introspection for something lighter that would let me breathe At other times this book precisely enables free breathing he leaves no stone unturned is continually unplugged leaving me for a while at least feeling as if I too had shed layers of untruth by proxyJames Wood too is a fan of Knausgård Here is his interview with him in


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *