Call number
FIC KNA
Collection
Series
Publication
Farrar, Straus and Giroux (2013), Edition: Reprint, 448 pages
Description
Fiction. Literature. My Struggle: Book One introduces American readers to the audacious, addictive, and profoundly surprising international literary sensation that is the provocative and brilliant six-volume autobiographical novel by Karl Ove Knausgaard. It has already been anointed a Proustian masterpiece and is the rare work of dazzling literary originality that is intensely, irresistibly readable. Unafraid of the big issues-death, love, art, fear-and yet committed to the intimate details of life as it is lived, My Struggle is an essential work of contemporary literature.
Media reviews
“My Struggle” is not really a novel but the first book of a six-volume autobiography that is now notorious in Knausgaard’s native country. The Hitlerian title (“Min Kamp,” in Norwegian) refers not only to the usual stations of the bildungsroman but also to two fierce battles. One is with
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the author’s father, a morose and distant schoolteacher who left the family when Knausgaard was a teen-ager, and then drank himself to death. The more pervasive struggle is with death itself, in which writing is both weapon and battlefield.
. . .
There is a flatness and a prolixity to the prose; the long sentences have about them an almost careless avant-gardism, with their conversational additions and splayed run-ons. The writer seems not to be selecting or shaping anything, or even pausing to draw breath. Cliché is not spurned—time is falling through Knausgaard’s hands “like sand”; elsewhere in the book, the author tells us that falling in love was like being struck by lightning, that he was head over heels in love, that he was as hungry as a wolf. There is, perhaps, something a little gauche in his confessional volubility. But there is also a simplicity, an openness, and an innocence in his relation to life, and thus in his relation to the reader. Where many contemporary writers would reflexively turn to irony, Knausgaard is intense and utterly honest, unafraid to voice universal anxieties, unafraid to appear naïve or awkward. Although his sentences are long and loose, they are not cutely or aimlessly digressive: truth is repeatedly being struck at, not chatted up. Show Less
Information
Knausgård går lige i mellemgulvet...Karl Ove Knausgårds ambitiøse romaprjekt MIN KAMP er en sejr for romankunsten.
Min kamp. Første bok
Knausgård, Karl Ove
| ISBN 9788249506866
Karl Ove Knausgårds tredje roman innebærer en enorm litterær satsning, og er en stor bok i mer enn én forstand: Min kamp blir utgitt som seks romaner. Første, andre og tredje bok er utkommet, og fjerde, femte og sjette bok
Romanen åpner med en svimlende beskrivelse av døden. Derfra fortelles det om forfatteren Karl Ove Knausgårds kamp for å mestre livet og seg selv og sine egne ambisjoner på skrivingens vegne, i møte med de menneskene han har rundt seg. Min kamp. Første bok utforsker det å vokse opp og være overgitt en verden som ser ut til å være komplett, avsluttet, lukket. Romanen beskriver det unge blikkets varhet og usikkerhet, der det registrerer andre menneskers tilstedeværelse og vurderinger med en åpenhet som er voldsom og nesten selvutslettende i sin konsekvens.
I en borende prosa som oppsøker det sårbare, det pinlige og det eksistensielt betydningsbærende, blir dette en dypt personlig roman, selvutprøvende og kontroversiell. Et eksistensielt omdreiningspunkt er farens død, et annet er kanskje hovedpersonens debut som forfatter.
I 2009 ble Min kamp. Første bok kåret til en av de ti beste romanene siste tiår av VG. For denne boken mottok Karl Ove Knausgård Brageprisen, og han ble nominert til Nordisk Råds litteraturpris.
Knausgård, Karl Ove
| ISBN 9788249506866
Karl Ove Knausgårds tredje roman innebærer en enorm litterær satsning, og er en stor bok i mer enn én forstand: Min kamp blir utgitt som seks romaner. Første, andre og tredje bok er utkommet, og fjerde, femte og sjette bok
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utkommer våren 2010. Romanen åpner med en svimlende beskrivelse av døden. Derfra fortelles det om forfatteren Karl Ove Knausgårds kamp for å mestre livet og seg selv og sine egne ambisjoner på skrivingens vegne, i møte med de menneskene han har rundt seg. Min kamp. Første bok utforsker det å vokse opp og være overgitt en verden som ser ut til å være komplett, avsluttet, lukket. Romanen beskriver det unge blikkets varhet og usikkerhet, der det registrerer andre menneskers tilstedeværelse og vurderinger med en åpenhet som er voldsom og nesten selvutslettende i sin konsekvens.
I en borende prosa som oppsøker det sårbare, det pinlige og det eksistensielt betydningsbærende, blir dette en dypt personlig roman, selvutprøvende og kontroversiell. Et eksistensielt omdreiningspunkt er farens død, et annet er kanskje hovedpersonens debut som forfatter.
I 2009 ble Min kamp. Første bok kåret til en av de ti beste romanene siste tiår av VG. For denne boken mottok Karl Ove Knausgård Brageprisen, og han ble nominert til Nordisk Råds litteraturpris.
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User reviews
LibraryThing member kidzdoc
He had been her first born.
Children were not supposed to pre-decease their parents, they weren't supposed to. That was not the idea.
And to me, what had Dad been to me?
Someone I wished dead.
So why all these tears?
This almost indescribably rich and unputdownable memoir begins with a riff on death, as
For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can. Sooner or later, one day, this pounding action will cease of its own accord, and the blood will begin to run toward the body’s lowest point, where it will collect in a small pool, visible from outside as a dark, soft patch on ever whitening skin, as the temperature sinks, the limbs stiffen and the intestines drain.
The moment life departs the body, it belongs to death…None of this is alien to us. We are constantly surrounded by objects and phenomena from the realm of the death. Nonetheless, there are few things that arouse in us greater distaste than to see a human being caught up in it, at least if we are to judge by the efforts we make to keep corpses out of sight.
It seemed to me as though a New Orleans brass band should have accompanied and played alongside Knausgaard during his haunting opening trumpet blast. However, unlike a typical Crescent City jazz funeral march, there will be no posthumous celebration of the life of the dearly departed, in this case Karl Ove’s father. Instead, he gives us an exploration of the man and his slow, downward spiral from a respected teacher, husband and father to a shell of a man, ravaged by alcoholism, poor health and self loathing, who suffers a grotesque and premature death in his childhood home at the side of his demented mother.
Karl Ove began this memoir as a young man, as he struggled to write a new novel and was invigorated but challenged by the demands of being a father to a young child, and the husband of a woman who loves him unconditionally but does not fully satisfy his wants and needs. He reflects on and describes, in great detail, his seemingly ordinary childhood as a sensitive and intelligent boy who seeks acceptance from his distant and judgmental father as validation of his own worth. He develops a taste for alcohol as a teenager, has a series of superficial relationships with girls, and stumbles his way toward a career as a writer.
When his brother informs him of his father’s death, the two young men drop everything and go to their grandmother’s house, to prepare for the funeral and provide support to their father’s ailing mother. Although Karl Ove never gained the love and respect he so desperately sought, he is profoundly affected by his father’s death, and he grapples to understand why it has caused him so much anguish.
My Struggle: Book One could rightfully be described as a navel gazing memoir, similar to others that have been recently written. However, it is much more than that: Knausgaard draws the reader into his story, as it reads like a rich novel with superb dialogue and a compelling story line, and I devoured this book far more quickly than I expected to.
Ultimately, no review, at least not this one, can do justice to this book. I urge you to read this book because it’s one of the best memoirs that I’ve ever read. Read it because it is a fascinating look at the life of a young man, and the troubled relationship between a father and a son. Read it because it is as good as any contemporary historical novel. Most importantly, as many others have said, just read it, despite my insufficient comments about it. You’ll be glad that you did.
Children were not supposed to pre-decease their parents, they weren't supposed to. That was not the idea.
And to me, what had Dad been to me?
Someone I wished dead.
So why all these tears?
This almost indescribably rich and unputdownable memoir begins with a riff on death, as
Show More
a physiological process, a phenomenon that simultaneously inspires reverence and horror, and a profoundly transformational event for those who are affected by the passing of the deceased person: For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can. Sooner or later, one day, this pounding action will cease of its own accord, and the blood will begin to run toward the body’s lowest point, where it will collect in a small pool, visible from outside as a dark, soft patch on ever whitening skin, as the temperature sinks, the limbs stiffen and the intestines drain.
The moment life departs the body, it belongs to death…None of this is alien to us. We are constantly surrounded by objects and phenomena from the realm of the death. Nonetheless, there are few things that arouse in us greater distaste than to see a human being caught up in it, at least if we are to judge by the efforts we make to keep corpses out of sight.
It seemed to me as though a New Orleans brass band should have accompanied and played alongside Knausgaard during his haunting opening trumpet blast. However, unlike a typical Crescent City jazz funeral march, there will be no posthumous celebration of the life of the dearly departed, in this case Karl Ove’s father. Instead, he gives us an exploration of the man and his slow, downward spiral from a respected teacher, husband and father to a shell of a man, ravaged by alcoholism, poor health and self loathing, who suffers a grotesque and premature death in his childhood home at the side of his demented mother.
Karl Ove began this memoir as a young man, as he struggled to write a new novel and was invigorated but challenged by the demands of being a father to a young child, and the husband of a woman who loves him unconditionally but does not fully satisfy his wants and needs. He reflects on and describes, in great detail, his seemingly ordinary childhood as a sensitive and intelligent boy who seeks acceptance from his distant and judgmental father as validation of his own worth. He develops a taste for alcohol as a teenager, has a series of superficial relationships with girls, and stumbles his way toward a career as a writer.
When his brother informs him of his father’s death, the two young men drop everything and go to their grandmother’s house, to prepare for the funeral and provide support to their father’s ailing mother. Although Karl Ove never gained the love and respect he so desperately sought, he is profoundly affected by his father’s death, and he grapples to understand why it has caused him so much anguish.
My Struggle: Book One could rightfully be described as a navel gazing memoir, similar to others that have been recently written. However, it is much more than that: Knausgaard draws the reader into his story, as it reads like a rich novel with superb dialogue and a compelling story line, and I devoured this book far more quickly than I expected to.
Ultimately, no review, at least not this one, can do justice to this book. I urge you to read this book because it’s one of the best memoirs that I’ve ever read. Read it because it is a fascinating look at the life of a young man, and the troubled relationship between a father and a son. Read it because it is as good as any contemporary historical novel. Most importantly, as many others have said, just read it, despite my insufficient comments about it. You’ll be glad that you did.
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LibraryThing member AlisonY
If you haven't heard of Karl Ove Knausgaard before, he is something of a national obsession in his native Norway on the back of this book and the subsequent 5 other volumes he has published about his life. He's looks like the bad boy of literature - all messed up hair and cigarettes, mad and
I had read so much hype about this series of books I was almost afraid to start this hefty first volume in case it disappointed, but it was utterly captivating. I will not be able to do this book justice in whatever I review here, but I will have a go.
It is a memoir written as a novel - no doubt with a fair bit of fictional padding, and indeed it's sold as a work of fiction - but it's so cleverly done. I haven't read Proust, but this series of work has been compared to it in just about every review I've read. He writes in very long paragraphs with no chapters and few obvious places to stop reading, and much of it is in stream of consciousness style.
The first part of the book mainly reflects back on his childhood up to around the age of 16, particularly his relationship with his loving but mainly absent mum and his distant and difficult to please father. From time to time it skips back to present times, and in those parts Knausgaard does slip into arrogant self-obsessed philosophising and ruminating. I couldn't have read an entire book of this, but limited as it was his razor sharp observances were poignant and fascinating.
On the surface there is nothing particularly fascinating in his childhood to support a main plot line, but Knausgaard is such a skilful writer you are totally drawn into the story, unable to stop turning the pages. He pays such attention to the most minor of details that you are sucked right into that town in Norway, getting cold feet in the snowy streets with him, sitting beside him in school, feeling the acute discomfort of sitting in the kitchen in silence with his father.
The second part of the book focuses on the difficult few days in the immediate aftermath of his father's death (no spoiler - you're made aware that this is coming early on), returning to his home town to plan the funeral whilst trying to come to terms with the shocking level of self-destruction his dad's life had spiralled into. It is an acute account of the unexpected way in which his grief manifests itself, and again his observances are so pin sharp he touches every sense.
I loved this book. It is a magnifying glass inside someone's head, and he touches the little things that resonate so strongly with all of us (many of which we'd rather not admit to). He has deliberately set out to write an acclaimed work of literature, and in places it runs away with itself (or rather he disappears too far inside his own mind), but mostly it's immensely readable.
I will need a break before a delve into book 2 of the series, but I'm drawn to him and his life like a moth to the flame.
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faintly dangerous in a compelling sort of way. He rocks that homeless man crossed with Bob Geldof kind of look.I had read so much hype about this series of books I was almost afraid to start this hefty first volume in case it disappointed, but it was utterly captivating. I will not be able to do this book justice in whatever I review here, but I will have a go.
It is a memoir written as a novel - no doubt with a fair bit of fictional padding, and indeed it's sold as a work of fiction - but it's so cleverly done. I haven't read Proust, but this series of work has been compared to it in just about every review I've read. He writes in very long paragraphs with no chapters and few obvious places to stop reading, and much of it is in stream of consciousness style.
The first part of the book mainly reflects back on his childhood up to around the age of 16, particularly his relationship with his loving but mainly absent mum and his distant and difficult to please father. From time to time it skips back to present times, and in those parts Knausgaard does slip into arrogant self-obsessed philosophising and ruminating. I couldn't have read an entire book of this, but limited as it was his razor sharp observances were poignant and fascinating.
On the surface there is nothing particularly fascinating in his childhood to support a main plot line, but Knausgaard is such a skilful writer you are totally drawn into the story, unable to stop turning the pages. He pays such attention to the most minor of details that you are sucked right into that town in Norway, getting cold feet in the snowy streets with him, sitting beside him in school, feeling the acute discomfort of sitting in the kitchen in silence with his father.
The second part of the book focuses on the difficult few days in the immediate aftermath of his father's death (no spoiler - you're made aware that this is coming early on), returning to his home town to plan the funeral whilst trying to come to terms with the shocking level of self-destruction his dad's life had spiralled into. It is an acute account of the unexpected way in which his grief manifests itself, and again his observances are so pin sharp he touches every sense.
I loved this book. It is a magnifying glass inside someone's head, and he touches the little things that resonate so strongly with all of us (many of which we'd rather not admit to). He has deliberately set out to write an acclaimed work of literature, and in places it runs away with itself (or rather he disappears too far inside his own mind), but mostly it's immensely readable.
I will need a break before a delve into book 2 of the series, but I'm drawn to him and his life like a moth to the flame.
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LibraryThing member checkadawson
I enjoy difficult books, and I read a lot of foreign fiction. That said, this one was tough going for me. Perhaps it was all the alcohol consumed by the author during his teenage years and also by his father (who ultimately dies from alcoholism). Or maybe it was the way the author used an extreme
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level of detail when describing day-to-day activities. This intricacy was interesting to read for awhile but got tedious over the long term. I don't think I'd pick up the other volumes of this six-volume book. Show Less
LibraryThing member PhilipJHunt
Strange. I wanted to like this, because it is so well written. Echoes of Proust, Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. But it's a rambling affair. Partly this is its charm. It reads like streams of consciousness, and these are insightful and rewarding. And the streams divert into charming plot developments
The book requires no effort to read, but it does ask for patience.
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as we proceed from youth towards adulthood and the death in the family without ever reaching the funeral, which may have provided a natural denouement. All credit to the translator, Don Bartlett, who makes the book read like it was written first in English, apart from Norwegian place names and the occasional replacement, such as 'gymnas' for school, which remind the reader that we are in Norway, not Kansas.The book requires no effort to read, but it does ask for patience.
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LibraryThing member starbox
"The days from which these incidents are drawn were countless, the bonds they created between us indestructible",, August 23, 2014
This review is from: My Struggle: Book 1 (Kindle Edition)
This review is from: A Death in the Family: My Struggle Book 1 (Knausgaard) (Kindle Edition)
An amazing read,
Much of everyday life is described in excessive detail, yet somehow it doesn't bore - rather it makes you feel like you're there, watching all that happens. And in between, there are interesting, moving, highly relevant thoughts on life, art, nature, relationships.
Looking forward to reading the sequels!
This review is from: My Struggle: Book 1 (Kindle Edition)
This review is from: A Death in the Family: My Struggle Book 1 (Knausgaard) (Kindle Edition)
An amazing read,
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but one that's hard to review. It's somewhere between a memoir and a work of literature: opening with the author recollecting his early childhood, with a father he fears (although we never really discover what causes such strong feelings); moving to the present day, where he describes marriage and children - love but boredom at much that this life entails . He describes his teenage years brilliantly: the huge effort of smuggling booze to a new year's party without his parents finding out; obsessive first love. And then midway through the book his father, who he hadn't seen for 18 months, dies an alcoholic, and as he spends time clearing up the house, he begins to realise how much he meant to him.Much of everyday life is described in excessive detail, yet somehow it doesn't bore - rather it makes you feel like you're there, watching all that happens. And in between, there are interesting, moving, highly relevant thoughts on life, art, nature, relationships.
Looking forward to reading the sequels!
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LibraryThing member snash
This book had some spectacular musings on death, and explorations of the ambivalent feelings of a son for his father, but I found nearly half the book a struggle to read. Too many scenes with little significance were described in excruciating detail. It didn't help that I found the author as a
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teenager rather unlikeable. Show Less
LibraryThing member ursula
Well, as usual I didn't know a thing about the book going in. Still, it was easy to quickly make a connection between this book of semi-fiction (autobiographical fiction? fictionalized memoir? barely-fiction? more-fiction-than-you-might-think?) and Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and not just
This part was harrowing for me personally - the descriptions are so detailed of what it's like to be in the house of an alcoholic who has drunk himself to death that if you've had that experience (or just the experience of being in the house of a family member who has long given in to their alcoholism), you may feel claustrophobic and not be able to help reliving it. And that's not a negative comment in any way; I can't say I "enjoyed" this feeling of recognition, but I was a bit in awe of it.
It's not for everyone, I can tell that. Much like Proust, Knausgaard describes *everything*. For example, making dinner: "Yngve folded up the two grocery bags and put them in the bottom drawer. The margarine was sizzling in the pan. The jet from the tap was broken by the potatoes I was holding beneath it, and the water that ran down the sides of the sink was not powerful enough to remove all the soil from the tubers and so formed a layer of mud around the plughole until the potatoes were clean and I removed them from the jet, which then swept everything with it in a second, to reveal once again the spotless, gleaming metal base." Okay, so that's actually just the preparing to make dinner - you get the idea.
Anyway, I loved it, and I'm looking forward to reading the rest. I can already tell that Karl Ove is not going to be the kind of guy I would want to hang out with, not least because he is the type of guy to name his book(s) My Struggle, or Min Kamp in Norwegian - which is Mein Kampf in German (and not the title the German translation has used). But hey, I don't have to want to physically hang out with the guy to want to hang out in his head for the duration of these books.
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because Knausgaard's effort is apparently stretched out over six volumes as well. There's the same sort of details of place and action that make it like watching the scene unfold, the same digressions and jumps in time and circumstance, only to come back to the original story pages later (or not at all). We spend the first half of the book following along with scenes from Karl Ove's childhood, mostly in adolescence, and the second half with the adult Karl Ove in the aftermath of his father's death. But the adult creeps into the childhood narrative as well - we're never left to completely immerse ourselves in that period of his life because grown-up Karl Ove is there as well, a writer who has left Norway and lives in Sweden, is on his second marriage, has small children, and inserts his musings on both his young self and his current life. And then in the second part, we are completely present with the adult as he finds out his father has died and goes with his brother to arrange the funeral and find out what he can do for his grandmother.This part was harrowing for me personally - the descriptions are so detailed of what it's like to be in the house of an alcoholic who has drunk himself to death that if you've had that experience (or just the experience of being in the house of a family member who has long given in to their alcoholism), you may feel claustrophobic and not be able to help reliving it. And that's not a negative comment in any way; I can't say I "enjoyed" this feeling of recognition, but I was a bit in awe of it.
It's not for everyone, I can tell that. Much like Proust, Knausgaard describes *everything*. For example, making dinner: "Yngve folded up the two grocery bags and put them in the bottom drawer. The margarine was sizzling in the pan. The jet from the tap was broken by the potatoes I was holding beneath it, and the water that ran down the sides of the sink was not powerful enough to remove all the soil from the tubers and so formed a layer of mud around the plughole until the potatoes were clean and I removed them from the jet, which then swept everything with it in a second, to reveal once again the spotless, gleaming metal base." Okay, so that's actually just the preparing to make dinner - you get the idea.
Anyway, I loved it, and I'm looking forward to reading the rest. I can already tell that Karl Ove is not going to be the kind of guy I would want to hang out with, not least because he is the type of guy to name his book(s) My Struggle, or Min Kamp in Norwegian - which is Mein Kampf in German (and not the title the German translation has used). But hey, I don't have to want to physically hang out with the guy to want to hang out in his head for the duration of these books.
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LibraryThing member TheEllieMo
I can not decide whether or not I like this book. I found it self-indulgent, and I at times felt that the author was incredibly arrogant. The book appears to have been written as self-therapy, to cleanse the author of his feelings about his father. We never really find out why the author hated his
This book definitely is not as good as the praise at the front of the book suggests. But at the same time, I did want to read it. Although not likeable, the author's character is intriguing; his observations of human nature are fascinating, his descriptions of the things he sees brings them alive. And yet he appears to have no ability to interpret his own behaviour. It has been suggested that the author may be somewhere on the autism spectrum; he is highly intelligent, but seems unable to truly relate to others.
I can't say I enjoyed the book. I can't say I would recommend it to others to read. But I am glad I took the time to read it.
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father so much, nor do we discover much about what seems to have been a very good relationship with his mother. The style of the book is sometimes very difficult to read: there are whole pages without a single paragraph break, and there is little flow of narrative. You could start reading this book at any point and not lose the flow.This book definitely is not as good as the praise at the front of the book suggests. But at the same time, I did want to read it. Although not likeable, the author's character is intriguing; his observations of human nature are fascinating, his descriptions of the things he sees brings them alive. And yet he appears to have no ability to interpret his own behaviour. It has been suggested that the author may be somewhere on the autism spectrum; he is highly intelligent, but seems unable to truly relate to others.
I can't say I enjoyed the book. I can't say I would recommend it to others to read. But I am glad I took the time to read it.
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LibraryThing member bigorangecat
Not worthy of the hype.
LibraryThing member bodachliath
This book, and the autobiographical series of which it forms the first part, has been talked about a lot and praised by many critics whose judgment I would normally trust, but I must admit to having felt a certain apprehension at tackling it. Knausgaard invests apparently banal everyday events with
The first half of the book focuses mainly on a few days when he was sixteen, centred on a new year party, and is full of the usual tropes of adolescence. The second part is an account of the days following his alcoholic father's death. This is graphic and haunting. All very memorable, but I'm not entirely convinced I want to read more.
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charged significance, and the overall impression is very powerful, almost oppressively so. The first half of the book focuses mainly on a few days when he was sixteen, centred on a new year party, and is full of the usual tropes of adolescence. The second part is an account of the days following his alcoholic father's death. This is graphic and haunting. All very memorable, but I'm not entirely convinced I want to read more.
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LibraryThing member Tomleesteenboek
The strength of this book, in my eyes, is the way it makes the readers nostalgic for their own childhood. It made me at least think back of my teenage years (the first part that is). What I didn't like was the lack of subtlety, especially in the second part of the book. The author seems to try to
I also was annoyed by some of his philosophical sidesteps. they were trivial and full of clichés.
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force compassion with the reader, and I'm allergic to that. If I am moved by literature, it's mostly because of the things the author implies. Knausgard chooses to be extremely explicit in his emotions.I also was annoyed by some of his philosophical sidesteps. they were trivial and full of clichés.
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LibraryThing member MSarki
04/17
100% "This is an amazing book. So unsettling but in a mesmerizing sort of way. It is dreamlike but chock full of reality. I am afraid for my dreams that will come from this heartfelt and painfully serious work of the very first rank."
04/14
69.0% "All this bit about his father dying and the
04/13
52.0% "Much better. This section is very very good. I guess I just like an older voice."
04/12
45.0% "Karl Ove has a wife now, an office, and a child on the way. Glad to have left his coming-of-age period."
04/11
38.0% "I am liking his take on being in love with somebody. Even if unrequited."
04/09
33.0% "Quite the confounding work here. An article by James Wood in The New Yorker from Aug of 2012 sheds great light on this novel. I couldn't agree more with him either."
04/06
24.0% "Still waiting for the beer hidden in the woods to get drunk. I think he hid it fifty pages ago." 2 comments
04/05
12.0% "I hit a snag in the "coming of age sexually". But I will get back to it."
03/31
8.0% "I loved the opening of this novel/memoir but not so much his teenage years. Not creative enough. Too much linear detail. I did this and then I did this and then I went and did this. But I am hopeful that the book gets going for me again soon."
100% "This is an amazing book. So unsettling but in a mesmerizing sort of way. It is dreamlike but chock full of reality. I am afraid for my dreams that will come from this heartfelt and painfully serious work of the very first rank."
04/14
69.0% "All this bit about his father dying and the
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history behind it, the two brothers and their task at hand in cleaning up his mess, the funeral to come, all riveting and now the book is moving at a very good clip for me. Hard to put it down, though I do like to move slowly."04/13
52.0% "Much better. This section is very very good. I guess I just like an older voice."
04/12
45.0% "Karl Ove has a wife now, an office, and a child on the way. Glad to have left his coming-of-age period."
04/11
38.0% "I am liking his take on being in love with somebody. Even if unrequited."
04/09
33.0% "Quite the confounding work here. An article by James Wood in The New Yorker from Aug of 2012 sheds great light on this novel. I couldn't agree more with him either."
04/06
24.0% "Still waiting for the beer hidden in the woods to get drunk. I think he hid it fifty pages ago." 2 comments
04/05
12.0% "I hit a snag in the "coming of age sexually". But I will get back to it."
03/31
8.0% "I loved the opening of this novel/memoir but not so much his teenage years. Not creative enough. Too much linear detail. I did this and then I did this and then I went and did this. But I am hopeful that the book gets going for me again soon."
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LibraryThing member EllieNYC
I won this from LibraryThing but sadly it never arrived. I ended up buying it and loved it from first to last (and through every volume so far published in the US.
It's a wonderful book. I'm not completely sure why I loved it so much. The writing is not always smooth-although since I'm reading in
His life is nothing like mine; he seems very unlike myself, yet the book by focusing so intensely on the writer's experiences made me come more alive to my own. Like I said, I'm running to the next volume.
It's a wonderful book. I'm not completely sure why I loved it so much. The writing is not always smooth-although since I'm reading in
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translation, I have no idea how the original sounds. But it's certainly not remarkable for powerful images or even deep philosophy. It is, however, a fascinating accounting almost moment by moment of the writer's past, his childhood, his adolescence, his life. It is brutally honest; Knausgard hardly gives himself a break, but fascinating. I could not put it down. I can't wait to read the next volume. I'm completely addicted to this work. Knausgard appears in interviews to be attractive but self-effacing which is odd when he is using the minutiae of his life as the material for this enormous work. But it's in keeping with how he appears as narrator.His life is nothing like mine; he seems very unlike myself, yet the book by focusing so intensely on the writer's experiences made me come more alive to my own. Like I said, I'm running to the next volume.
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LibraryThing member Jamie_Martin
Karl Ove Knausgaard has opened a new world to me in literature. I think what people love most about him is how he can make the most mundane parts of life seem overwhelmingly beautiful as he walks us through his life and the struggles of his psyche and emotions. He makes me want to write more. He
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makes me want to learn more. He makes me want to read more. I am engrossed in the second part of this memoir, and I so hope that more of his books are translated so I can just lose myself in Knausgaard forever. Show Less
LibraryThing member vplprl
This obsessive and fascinating novel is Knausgaard’s opening volume of a six volume opus detailing thinly veiled portrait of his adolescence, friends, family, and married life. Although many of his “characters” were displeased with their portrayal, fascinated readers around the globe have
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discovered the work is not just a gimmick, but rather, a work of great sensitivity and insight. Recommended for fans of literary fiction.This book has been shortlisted for the current IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Show Less
LibraryThing member bobbieharv
A beautiful beautiful book. I loved it from the first chapter. Loved the Proust-like stream of consciousness going in and out of his childhood, looping back eventually to where he started in the present moment. Filled with detail and feeling and acute observation - loved it from beginning to end.
LibraryThing member jphamilton
I find this writing absolutely fascinating.
LibraryThing member Mijk
This volume lived up to its critical reputation, sparse unsparing language about ordinarily problematic relationships interspersed with lyrical passages about weather, light and landscape, contextualised in the becoming-years of popular culture which coincide with the author's own adolescence and
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manhood. Show Less
LibraryThing member DavidCLDriedger
Hard to live up to all the billing it has received. Honest writing. Moments of bare and striking insight. Good read, but I doubt I will continue with next volume.
LibraryThing member j_blett
For me, this lived up to the positive critical reaction I've seen just about everywhere; if the commentary sounds to you like it describes the kind of literature you like to read, I doubt you'll be disappointed. I'm not sure how this will carry over another five volumes, or if I'm willing to be
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carried along that far, but I'm certainly up to giving it a shot. Show Less
LibraryThing member gregorybrown
Knausgaard's project is to capture those moments that seem imbued with meaning beyond their contexts, an alignment of thought and happenstance that seems so glancing, so capricious that to explain it to anyone else would be to render it silly, impotent. We all enjoy and suffer from these feelings,
To get there, Knausgaard doesn't try to stab at the moments directly, instead trying to catalog their surroundings and let the figures emerge from the ground, sort of like the whitespace in the margins of our lives. Other readers and critics have noted his complete, reckless honesty—necessary so that the experience is mediated as little as possible. This is fiction's partnership with empathy, rendered in its truest form. Knausgaard can be a skeptic as a person (and especially as a teenager), but he is never so as a writer. Indeed, he only briefly acknowledges towards the start that this is an explicitly written work; for the rest, it is one long stream of consciousness that seems to pour directly from his head to ours, not even interrupted by chapter or scene breaks.
That's not to say that this is an experimental work; indeed, Knausgaard's writing might be some of the most conventional I've read. Bartlett's translation is superb; while I can't attest to the fidelity, it was wonderful to read and outside of the place names and a few charming idioms, I couldn't have told it was originally written in another language. Even the juvenilia is faithfully rendered in English, with the character at one point getting a "stiffy" from being near a girl.
I've gone this far without mentioning the P word, but that's because I've never actually read any Proust—a crime, I know. Famous for this sort of all-encompassing personal writing, rich with memory and meaning, he's the closest analogue touted by critics. Instead, the closest writer I know of would be Chris Ware, who also does a wonderful job of both capturing ordinary life and the mix of emotions and resonances right below the surface. Of course, both are also deeply concerned with death, especially Knausgaard.
That said, the first half of the book is rather warm and wistful, an account of the author's childhood and teenage years. He's incredibly perceptive about the way events at that age are charged with meaning, as if your entire life will be determined by how your date goes on Friday night, or whether you pass the math test on Tuesday. And yet, there are some relationships with adult complexity, even as a child. His uneven relationship with his father, for example, who can be kind and cruel in equal measure. Knausgaard captures well the detente between two individuals who don't understand each other, and must live in a weary co-existence.
The second half of the book takes place much later, when his father passes away from heart troubles (and no small amount of alcoholism). For the last decade or so, the father had cooped himself up with his own mother (author's grandmother) in a squalid, Hoarders-ish house, which the sons must now thoroughly clean—a physicalized version of them coping with his death, and purging themselves of his legacy. This would seem a bit too on-the-nose if it weren't for Knausgaard's devastating honesty, and utter lack of anything approximating snark. This cleansing (and digressions) is rendered over 100 pages, the sort of micro-detail that would seem grating in any other book, but is necessary to his project and enjoyable in any case. (Given that appeals to me, I guess I should get around to reading Moby Dick one of these days.)
In all, though, the novel works on the reader in the same way as Knausgaard describes the effects on himself. As the events charge events with meaning by recalling personal details, so too do you recall the resonances in your own life. For myself, it was the portrait of his grandmother as someone whose mind and body had withered away, stubbornly refusing to perish, but a shadow of their former selves. In the case of my grandmother, it means living in an Alzheimer's ward, designed almost as if Bentham's panopticon (but without the unknowable vision), each of the apartments radiating out from a central space so the attendants can at a glance tell where any of the inhabitants are, with a locked door sealing off the entire space. Of course, the code is easy to remember and in any case written on the door frame, but the patients are beyond the perception and memory needed to piece those facts together.
For Knausgaard, though, coming to terms with his grandmother's decay is tied up with his own father presiding over her decline, refusing the home-help or letting her leave for a retirement community—even breaking his leg at one point in a drunken stupor and not letting her call the ambulance, instead lying on the floor and pissing and shitting and taking his meals in that one spot, surrounded by his detritus until his brother discovers him days later and finally calls for help. It's this portrait of moral, cognitive, physical decay that the author truly hates, hates in the way that we hate those who resemble those parts in ourself that we fear, want to stamp out by stamping out that one person, trying to blot that out entirely from the world. As a way out of that cycle, Knausgaard disassembles himself, comes to terms with his failings and tries to figure out their true origins, finding himself in the ways others must find him, a mix of inborn personality and personal history, yet documented in a personal and internal way that would be impossible to find in any objective examination, instead in the melange of memories and dreams and regrets.
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the most private and personal experiences of our lives. Their very uncommunicability means they're rarely portrayed in fiction at all, let alone to this persistent level of success.To get there, Knausgaard doesn't try to stab at the moments directly, instead trying to catalog their surroundings and let the figures emerge from the ground, sort of like the whitespace in the margins of our lives. Other readers and critics have noted his complete, reckless honesty—necessary so that the experience is mediated as little as possible. This is fiction's partnership with empathy, rendered in its truest form. Knausgaard can be a skeptic as a person (and especially as a teenager), but he is never so as a writer. Indeed, he only briefly acknowledges towards the start that this is an explicitly written work; for the rest, it is one long stream of consciousness that seems to pour directly from his head to ours, not even interrupted by chapter or scene breaks.
That's not to say that this is an experimental work; indeed, Knausgaard's writing might be some of the most conventional I've read. Bartlett's translation is superb; while I can't attest to the fidelity, it was wonderful to read and outside of the place names and a few charming idioms, I couldn't have told it was originally written in another language. Even the juvenilia is faithfully rendered in English, with the character at one point getting a "stiffy" from being near a girl.
I've gone this far without mentioning the P word, but that's because I've never actually read any Proust—a crime, I know. Famous for this sort of all-encompassing personal writing, rich with memory and meaning, he's the closest analogue touted by critics. Instead, the closest writer I know of would be Chris Ware, who also does a wonderful job of both capturing ordinary life and the mix of emotions and resonances right below the surface. Of course, both are also deeply concerned with death, especially Knausgaard.
That said, the first half of the book is rather warm and wistful, an account of the author's childhood and teenage years. He's incredibly perceptive about the way events at that age are charged with meaning, as if your entire life will be determined by how your date goes on Friday night, or whether you pass the math test on Tuesday. And yet, there are some relationships with adult complexity, even as a child. His uneven relationship with his father, for example, who can be kind and cruel in equal measure. Knausgaard captures well the detente between two individuals who don't understand each other, and must live in a weary co-existence.
The second half of the book takes place much later, when his father passes away from heart troubles (and no small amount of alcoholism). For the last decade or so, the father had cooped himself up with his own mother (author's grandmother) in a squalid, Hoarders-ish house, which the sons must now thoroughly clean—a physicalized version of them coping with his death, and purging themselves of his legacy. This would seem a bit too on-the-nose if it weren't for Knausgaard's devastating honesty, and utter lack of anything approximating snark. This cleansing (and digressions) is rendered over 100 pages, the sort of micro-detail that would seem grating in any other book, but is necessary to his project and enjoyable in any case. (Given that appeals to me, I guess I should get around to reading Moby Dick one of these days.)
In all, though, the novel works on the reader in the same way as Knausgaard describes the effects on himself. As the events charge events with meaning by recalling personal details, so too do you recall the resonances in your own life. For myself, it was the portrait of his grandmother as someone whose mind and body had withered away, stubbornly refusing to perish, but a shadow of their former selves. In the case of my grandmother, it means living in an Alzheimer's ward, designed almost as if Bentham's panopticon (but without the unknowable vision), each of the apartments radiating out from a central space so the attendants can at a glance tell where any of the inhabitants are, with a locked door sealing off the entire space. Of course, the code is easy to remember and in any case written on the door frame, but the patients are beyond the perception and memory needed to piece those facts together.
For Knausgaard, though, coming to terms with his grandmother's decay is tied up with his own father presiding over her decline, refusing the home-help or letting her leave for a retirement community—even breaking his leg at one point in a drunken stupor and not letting her call the ambulance, instead lying on the floor and pissing and shitting and taking his meals in that one spot, surrounded by his detritus until his brother discovers him days later and finally calls for help. It's this portrait of moral, cognitive, physical decay that the author truly hates, hates in the way that we hate those who resemble those parts in ourself that we fear, want to stamp out by stamping out that one person, trying to blot that out entirely from the world. As a way out of that cycle, Knausgaard disassembles himself, comes to terms with his failings and tries to figure out their true origins, finding himself in the ways others must find him, a mix of inborn personality and personal history, yet documented in a personal and internal way that would be impossible to find in any objective examination, instead in the melange of memories and dreams and regrets.
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LibraryThing member iansales
Yes, I know the cover the book spells it Knausgaard, but the proper Norwegian is Knausgård; and no, I don’t know why the publisher felt a need to “Anglicise” it, as it’s not exactly hard to write. But anyway. This is the first book in a six-volume autobiography – as I write this five
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volumes are currently available in English – although for some reason the series has been published as fiction. Knausgård, it seems, prefers the term “novel” because he wrote the books as if they were fiction, although they were based closely on his own life. Certainly it’s true the level of detail for something set thirty years ago suggests fiction more than reminiscence. A Death in the Family covers Knausgård’s teen years in Tromøya in southern Norway, his friends, the girls he fancies, his introduction to alcohol, and his difficult relationship with his parents. In the second half of the novel, Knausgård tries to come to terms with the death of his father, and the state his grandparents have fallen into since their son’s death. I’ll admit I found the level of detail fascinating, even though the story itself is mostly banal. And the weird distancing effect between adult Knausgård presenting his memories and the lack of self-awareness by the teen narrator made for an interesting juxtaposition. I think I’ll give the second one, A Man in Love, a go… Show Less
LibraryThing member benjaminsiegel
When the writing is good, it soars; I could have done with an abridged version. Kept on thinking Proust but visualizing Lilyhammer.
LibraryThing member deeEhmm
I read one page. It was too much of a struggle.
LibraryThing member P1g5purt
Frequently a struggle to read...
Awards
Dublin Literary Award (Shortlist — 2014)
Believer Book Award (Shortlist — 2012)
Europese Literatuurprijs (Longlist — 2012)
Brage Prize (2009)
Independent Foreign Fiction Prize (Longlist — 2013)
Pages
448
ISBN
0374534144 / 9780374534141