By Karl Ove Knausgaard
"Intense and important. . . . the place many modern writers could reflexively flip to irony, Knausgaard is extreme and totally sincere, unafraid to voice common anxieties. . . . the necessity for totality . . . brings fantastic, lingering, celestial passages. . . . He wishes us to inhabit he ordinariness of lifestyles, that is occasionally bright, occasionally banal, and infrequently momentous, yet it all perforce traditional since it occurs during a lifestyles, and occurs, in numerous varieties, to every person. . . . The concluding sentences of the ebook are placid, undeniable, completed. they've got what Walter Benjamin referred to as 'the epic part of fact, wisdom.'"—James wooden, the recent Yorker"Ruthless beauty."—Aftenposten"This first installment of an epic quest may still repair jaded readers to life."—The Independent"Between Proust and the woods. Like granite; detailed and forceful. extra genuine than reality."—la Repubblica (Italy)Having left his first spouse, Karl Ove Knausgaard strikes to Stockholm, Sweden, the place he leads a solitary life. He moves up a deep friendship with one other exiled Norwegian, a Nietzschean highbrow and boxing enthusiast named Geir. He additionally tracks down Linda, whom he met at a writers' workshop many years prior and who involved him deeply.Book is at center a love story—the tale of Karl Ove falling in love along with his spouse. however the novel additionally tells different tales: of changing into a father, of the turbulence of kinfolk lifestyles, of outrageously unsuccessful makes an attempt at a family members holiday, of the emotional pressure of birthday events for kids, and of the day-by-day frustrations, rhythms, and distractions of Stockholm protecting him from (and filling) his novel.
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Additional info for My Struggle: Book Two: A Man in Love
Erik and Frida and a woman whose name I didn’t remember were standing at the worktop with their backs to us, preparing food. The tenderness I felt for Vanja filled me to the brim, but there was nothing I could do. I glanced at the person speaking, gave a faint smile whenever there was a witticism and sipped at the glass of red wine someone had put in front of me. Directly facing me was the only person who stood out. His face was large, his cheeks were scarred, features coarse, eyes intense. The hands on the table were large.
A couple of times every hour she asked whether it would soon be time to go, and it could have been an unbearable morning of nagging and scenes, but fortunately there were activities to fill it with. Linda took her to a bookshop to buy a present, afterwards they sat at the kitchen table and made a birthday card. We bathed the girls, combed their hair and put on their white stockings and party dresses. Then Vanja’s mood suddenly changed – she didn’t want to wear stockings or a dress, there was no question of her going to any party, and she threw the golden shoes at the wall – but after patiently sitting through the few minutes the outburst lasted we managed to get her into everything, including even the white knitted shawl she had been given for Heidi’s christening, and when at last the girls were sitting in the buggy in front of us they were again filled with expectation.
People were crowded round the worktop, it looked as if a meal was being prepared, and instead of squeezing through, I went to the toilet, unfurled a hefty handful of toilet paper, moistened it under the tap and went back to the living room to clean up. I lifted Heidi, who was still crying, and carried her to the bathroom to wash her hands. She wriggled and squirmed in my grip. ‘There, there, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Soon be done. Just a bit more, now, OK. ’ As we came out the crying subsided, but she wasn’t entirely happy, didn’t want to be put down, just wanted to be in my arms.