By Karl Ove Knausgaard
Winner of the 2009 Brage Prize, the 2010 ebook of the yr Prize in Morgenbladet, the 2010 P2 Listeners' Prize, and the 2004 Norwegian Critics' Prize and nominated for the 2010 Nordic Council Literary Prize.
"No one in his iteration equals Knausgaard."—Dagens Næringsliv
"A great piece of literature."—Politiken (Denmark)
To the guts, existence is straightforward: it beats for so long as it could. Then it stops. ultimately, at some point or one other, this thumping movement shuts down of its personal accord. . . . The alterations of those first hours occur so slowly and are played with such an inevitability that there's virtually a marginally of formality approximately them, as though lifestyles capitulates in line with set ideas, one of those gentleman's agreement.
Almost ten years have handed on account that Karl O. Knausgaard's father drank himself to loss of life. he's now embarking on his 3rd novel whereas haunted by way of self-doubt. Knausgaard breaks his personal existence tale all the way down to its basic debris, usually recreating stories in genuine time, mixing memories of pictures and dialog with profound questions in a amazing method. Knausgaard probes into his previous, dissecting struggles—great and small—with nice candor and energy. Articulating common dilemmas, this Proustian masterpiece opens a window into probably the most unique minds writing today.
Karl O. Knausgaard used to be born in Norway in 1968. His debut novel Out of This World received the Norwegian Critics' Prize and his A Time for Everything used to be nominated for the Nordic Council Prize.
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Additional resources for My Struggle: Book One
She was never outdoors. The streetlamp beyond our hedge cast its harsh light over her, but unlike the objects she was surrounded by – the garbage can, the white walls of the trailer, the paving slabs, the tarmac – which all reflected the cold, sharp light, her figure seemed to modulate and absorb it. Her bare arms gave off a matte gleam, the material of her white sweater shimmered, her mass of grayishbrown hair appeared almost golden. For a while she stood looking around, first over at Prestbakmo’s, then up at the Hansens’, then down at the forest across the road.
I stuck out my tongue, a minute passed, then she stuck out her tongue. There has never been so much future in my life as at that time, never so much joy. Now she is four, and everything is different. Her eyes are alert, switch between jealousy and happiness at the drop of a hat, between sorrow and anger, she is already practiced in the ways of the world and can be so cheeky that I completely lose my head and sometimes shout at her or shake her until she starts crying. But usually she just laughs.
Geir! Geir! ” The response came from John Beck’s drive after such a time lag that everyone who heard concluded that he had been considering it. “Right,” he shouted. Straight after, there was the sound of his running feet. As they approached Gustavsen’s wall, Dad got up in the living room. Something about the way he crossed the floor made me duck my head. Yngve ducked too. Dad came into the kitchen, walked over to the counter, leaned forward without a word, and closed the window with a bang. “We keep the window closed at night,” he said.