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Karl Ove Knausgård

Autor(a) de A morte do pai: A minha luta 1

38+ Works 9,596 Membros 349 Críticas 28 Favorited

About the Author

Karl Ove Knausgaard is a Norwegian author known for his six autobiographical novels called "My Struggle". His debut novel Out of This World won the Norwegian Critics Prize and his A Time for Everything was a finalist for the Nordic Council Prize. My Struggle: Book One was a New Yorker Book of the mostrar mais Year and Book Two was listed among the Wall Street Journal's 2013 Books of the Year. In 2014, Book Three was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. His new autobiographical quartet is based on the four seasons. Autumn was relased in August 2017. (Bowker Author Biography) mostrar menos


Obras por Karl Ove Knausgård

A morte do pai: A minha luta 1 (2009) 2,787 exemplares
Um homem apaixonado: A minha luta 2 (2013) 1,299 exemplares
My Struggle: Book 3 (2014) 963 exemplares
My Struggle: Book Four (2010) 797 exemplares
My Struggle: Book Five (2015) 670 exemplares
My Struggle: Book Six (2011) 441 exemplares
Autumn (2015) 438 exemplares
A Time for Everything (2004) 381 exemplares
The Morning Star (2020) 375 exemplares
Winter (2015) 246 exemplares
Spring (2016) 230 exemplares
Summer (2016) 196 exemplares
Out of the world (1998) 131 exemplares
The Wolves of Eternity (2021) 108 exemplares
Inadvertent (2018) 89 exemplares
In the Land of the Cyclops (2021) 82 exemplares
Edvard Munch (2019) 23 exemplares
Det tredje riket (2022) 21 exemplares
Fatherhood: Vintage Minis (2017) 20 exemplares
De vogels van de hemel (2019) 18 exemplares
My Struggle I-VI (2011) 7 exemplares
My Struggle (#1, #2, #3) — Autor — 5 exemplares
Nattskolen : roman (2023) 5 exemplares
Om året (2018) 3 exemplares
Bahar Yağmurları (2018) 2 exemplares
Nakker 1 exemplar
IN ESTATE (2021) 1 exemplar
Kevät (2017) 1 exemplar
Blind book 1 exemplar
Allt som är i himmelen (2012) 1 exemplar
Fin de combat (2021) 1 exemplar

Associated Works

A Scandinavian Christmas: Festive Tales for a Nordic Noël (2021) — Contribuidor — 21 exemplares
Martin Kellermans Rocky : samlade serier 2008-2013 (2013) — Prefácio, algumas edições10 exemplares
Untitled Horrors (2013) — Autor — 8 exemplares


Conhecimento Comum



"When called a vanity project, you can only admire the man vain enough to make it." So wrote Roger Ebert once about a film I love. It is a judgement that could be similarly applied to Knausgård's recent six volume literary project, challengingly titled 'Min Kamp', that blurs the border between autobiographical fiction and memoir. Having been read and acclaimed, we are told, by half the population of that most literate of nations, Norway, the first three volumes have now appeared in English and created a fair bit of tumult amongst our own nation's tiny literary elite. Proustian and vital, declare its supporters. A pointless and numbing slog, claim its detractors. The aura of attraction is only enhanced by the author claiming he never imagined it would be of interest to anyone much beyond himself; it was just something he had to write. What, then, could have forced its way out of Knausgård to be met with such a reception?

Volume one opens with a several page philosophical and sociological discourse on death and contemporary society's relationship to it. It's interesting, sets the intellectual tone, and has some insights that had not occurred to me:
No less conspicuous than our hiding the corpses is the fact that we always lower them to ground level as fast as possible. A hospital that transports its bodies upward, that sites its cold chambers on the upper floors is practically inconceivable. The dead are stored as close to the ground as possible. And the same principle applies to the agencies that attend them; an insurance company may well have its offices on the eighth floor, but not a funeral parlor. All funeral parlors have their offices as close to street level as possible. Why this should be so is hard to say; one might be tempted to believe that it was based on some ancient convention that originally had a practical purpose, such as a cellar being cold and therefore best suited to storing corpses, and that this principle has been retained in our era of refrigerators and cold-storage rooms, had it not been for the notion that transporting bodies upward in buildings seems contrary to the laws of nature, as though height and death are mutually incompatible. As though we possessed some kind of chthonic instinct, something deep within us that urges us to move death down to the earth whence we came.
This line merges smoothly into a memory of the young Karl Ove at home with his parents, and Part 1 is then mostly occupied with minutely detailed scenes from Karl Ove's adolescence. Part 2 picks up the theme of death again, detailing his reaction to his father's death and the practicalities of attending to the mess that was left behind. As before, the reader gets very minutely observed scenes, down to specific lists of cleaning supplies, or the different shades of color splayed among the cloudscape when Karl Ove looks out of the car window up at the sky at a certain moment.

What is it that Knausgård is attempting to do here? One answer, I think, comes from his wrestling, his "struggle", with this question, from one of many such "plotless" sections of the novel:
Writing is drawing the essence of what we know out of the shadows. That is what writing is about. Not what happens there, not what actions are played out there, but the there itself. There, that is writing's location and aim. But how to get there?
He's not simply writing a memoir, telling the reader Event A happened, followed by Event B and so forth. No, he's trying to recreate the very essence of past moments, such that the reader is not merely reading about a memory, but experiences that very memory, feels those very emotions, knows what he who experienced those moments knows. It's an attempt at something more intimate than memoir or autobiographical fiction.

For me, Knausgård in large part succeeds. This may well be helped by the fact that I, and probably many of its critical supporters, identify with the author in important respects, both demographic - white, male, middle aged, married, parents - and temperamental - introverted, intellectual, sensitive, a bit socially awkward perhaps. We get a passage like this, describing the adolescent Karl Ove's reaction to seeing a girl he liked in the presence of a boy she liked:
What had gone on? Hanne, blond, beautiful, playful, happy, always with a bemused, often also naive, question on her lips, what had she changed into? What was it that I had witnessed? A dark, deep, perhaps also passionate side, was that her? She had responded, it was only a glimpse, but nonetheless. Then, at that moment, I was nobody. I was crushed. I, with all the notes I had sent her, all the discussions I'd had with her, all my simple hopes and childish desires, I was nothing, a shout on the playground, a rock in scree, the hooting of a car horn.
Could I do this to her? Could I have this effect on her?
Could I have this effect on anyone?
But then how can one not, whatever personal background comes into play, feel a tear rising up when reading Knausgård describing the loss of rich and immense meaning that attached itself to all sorts of objects when one was a child:
You could still buy Slazenger tennis rackets, Tretorn balls, and Rossignol skis, Tyrolia bindings and Koflach boots. The houses where we lived were still standing, all of them. The sole difference, which is the difference between a child's reality and an adult's, was that they were no longer laden with meaning. A pair of Le Coq soccer boots was just a pair of soccer boots. If I felt anything when I held a pair in my hands now it was only a hangover from my childhood, nothing else, nothing in itself. The same with the sea, the same with the rocks, the same with the taste of salt that could fill your summer days to saturation, now it was just salt, end of story. The world was the same, yet it wasn't, for its meaning had been displaced, and was still being displaced, approaching closer and closer to meaninglessness.
I hope to find in subsequent volumes if Knausgård finds an answer for himself to this creeping nihilism of adulthood that he identifies. He didn't find it in this volume, complaining that in post-modern, post-Christian Europe,
Art does not know a beyond, science does not know a beyond, religion does not know a beyond, not anymore. Our world is enclosed around itself, enclosed around us, and there is no way out of it.
… (mais)
lelandleslie | 110 outras críticas | Feb 24, 2024 |
“If we’ve chosen discontent to be the engine of our progress then fine, but we should not complain that we are not content.”
- Tomáš Sedláček

Volume two of Knausgård's non-fiction fictional account of his Struggle wasn't as captivating as his first. Likely it has something to do with him cutting a more sympathetic figure in the first volume, as a teenager and then young man dealing with the wreck of his alcoholic father's life. In this volume, Knausgård egregiously violates the sensible position of Sedláček quoted above. Luckily he's an interesting writer embarked on an interesting project, because he's a real humorless and unsympathetic asshole throughout this. Which he'd probably admit.

Knausgård is writing in this second volume about his middle-aged marriage and parenthood of three children, which he chose freely despite apparently knowing it would all make him miserable, knowing he would prefer a "freer" life, because.. well, I'm not entirely sure, but best I can make out, he thought enduring family life would force him into being a good person.
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.
When I pushed the buggy all over town and spent my days taking care of my child it was not the case that I was adding something to my life, that it became richer as a result; on the contrary, something was removed from it...
So when I walked down the street with Vanja, when I fed and changed her, with these wild longings for a different life hammering away in my chest, this was the consequence of a decision and I had to live with it. There was no way out, other than the old well-travelled route: endurance. The fact that I cast a pall over the lives of those around me in doing so, well, that was just another consequence which had to be endured. If we had another child, and we would, regardless of whether Linda was pregnant now or not, and then another, which was equally inevitable, surely this would transcend duty, transcend my longings and end up as something wild and free in its own right? If not, what would I do then?
Some quiet days with her little family gathered around her, that was what she had been looking forward to. I, for my part, never looked forward to anything except the moment the office door closed behind me and I was alone and able to write.
For Christ's sake, being a good person, was that beyond me?
Not sure how this is going to end up working out for him. It doesn't look good so far, and I feel for those children growing up in this angry and dysfunctional household that Knausgård describes. Of course it would be dishonest not to admit that a little something of this attitude is present in most of us parents; at times we'd all much rather be reading or writing or doing something other than taking care of our children's need for our attention. But the joy and pleasure our children bring into our lives far outweighs those moments for me and most of us. Knausgård lets us know this isn't the case for him, alas. He chose this, but it makes him miserable.

He explains why he's letting the world know this unpleasant fact, and what lays behind this whole project for him, towards the end of this volume. After writing two moderately successful novels, he takes up an anti-fiction stance.
Over recent years I had increasingly lost faith in literature. I read and thought this is something someone has made up. Perhaps it was because we were totally inundated with fiction and stories. It had got out of hand.
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?
What he's done then is to write about real people, himself and his family and his acquaintances (mostly he doesn't have friends), rather than "made up" people. And not worried about narrative - there is no traditional "beginning" or "end" to these volumes. He's recalled real places and attitudes and people and put them on paper, filling in around them with created dialogue and actions as necessary.

Some critics hail this as pointing a new way forward for fiction. I agree it makes it worthy of attention, though I reject his idea that fiction is now meaningless, that current fiction is bankrupt and there is no historical fictional form that can be resurrected in the current age. But I cast a wide net. I'll keep reading fiction, and Knausgård.

… (mais)
lelandleslie | 110 outras críticas | Feb 24, 2024 |
Nachdem mir Band 2 nicht so sehr gefallen hat, war Band 3 der Morgenstern-Reihe wieder umwerfend. Unglaublich gut.
Von Art und Aufbau her erinnert das Buch wieder sehr an den ersten Band. Wir treffen auch die meisten Personen aus dem Morgenstern wieder (und Syvert), oft aus der Sicht anderer Beteiligter. So wird die Geschichte um Arne diesmal von Tove erzählt, neben Kathrine erzählt auch Gaute weiter, Helge tritt an die Stelle von Vibeke und so weiter. Knausgård beweist dabei ein unglaubliches Einfühlungsvermögen in seine Charaktere, alles ist perfekt glaubwürdig. Die gleichen Geschehnisse aus der Sicht eines anderen, und das völlig überzeugend. Egal, ob er sich in Frauen, Männer, alte oder junge Menschen hineinversetzt. Sogar die Sprache ändert sich entsprechend.
Und es wird langsam kompliziert. Das ganze Werk wird mehr und mehr zu einer riesigen und extrem faszinierenden Erzählung nach Art des Films Pulp Fiction. Alle Erzählstränge haben plötzlich Berührungspunkte zu anderen – und oft ist es mir schwergefallen, mich an das zu erinnern, was im Morgenstern und in den Wölfen passiert ist. Schließlich habe ich die kompletten Bücher noch einmal quergelesen und mir dann sogar Notizen dazu gemacht. Ich fürchte, dass man ohne solche Ausrüstung die weiteren Bände nicht wirklich wird genießen können. Oder zumindest nicht so sehr.
Das Buch selbst habe ich auf Norwegisch gelesen – mein erster norwegischer Roman. Einer der Gründe für mich, Norwegisch zu lernen, war schließlich, Knausgård im Original lesen zu können, und das habe ich hiermit erstmals umgesetzt. Natürlich war das aufwändig und anstrengend, hat aber auch viel Spaß gemacht.
Ein Meisterwerk. Die Morgenstern-Reihe ist ein atemberaubendes Unterfangen Knausgårds und zeigt bisher keine Tendenzen, zum Ende zu kommen. Zum Glück – aus meiner Sicht dürfen gerne noch viele weitere Bände folgen.
… (mais)
zottel | 1 outra crítica | Feb 21, 2024 |
A cliched final scene in a zombie movie might go something like this: the embattled, rag-tag crew thinks they are in the clear, their 4x4 armor plated truck speeding down a highway littered with abandoned vehicles. A swell of optimistic music signals the credits are about to roll. Suddenly, there is a chilling reveal that one of their number has been bitten, and the inexorable transformation into flesh-hungry living dead is already underway. The end.

I had this feeling towards the end of this extremely weird book, although maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Passage after passage would go by without much happening, perhaps idyllic descriptions of forested landscapes and rugged coastlines, or minor incidents in the life of a family. Then all the sudden, in just a few lines, the whole vibe would shift, throwing you into a vividly graphic scene of violence, desperation, death. I still don’t think this could have signaled what would be revealed in the final few pages of the first part of the book, which contain what has to be one the most hilariously underwhelming twist endings I’ve ever come across. After spending several hours making my through the biography of an angelologist and two novella length adaptations of biblical texts, for this story to end up where it did felt like an elaborate and scampish “fuck you”. All that is not to say I didn’t enjoy it. However, I was so taken aback by the “seagulls are angels” that I gave unbidden, off the cuff reviews to several friends this week, cherishing the moment right before I revealed the ending, which sounds even more absurd when said out loud.

The real “monster was in the house all along moment” was the hard cut that was the “coda” section of the book. While still pretty nice to read, it is such a whiplash inducing change that I’m not really sure why it was included here at all, besides maybe to really drive home the point about the seagulls are angels thing. But after reading several hundred pages of this book and thinking how cool it was that the guy who would go on to write My Struggle was able to create characters and plots that somewhat resembled a typical novel, the coda jerks us into a kind of proto-Struggle, what I can only assume is a lightly fictionalized version of a real life experience that could have fit comfortably in that later work. Why is this part of the book here? Beats me. The first interpretation that comes to mind isn’t a sympathetic one, namely that this writer who later became world famous for a book which defies any editor that dares raise a pen against it, hadn’t yet found the right format for his idiosyncratic style. Perhaps here we are seeing several different meandering segments tied together with vague connections in order to make a book? If so, I’d have to say it’s done about as well as it could be. The main reason that My Struggle might succeed in that space where, for me, A Time for Everything doesn’t quite make it, is that with the former there is no impression that we are going anywhere in particular, the digressions are the point, and muddling through the tedious in order to bump into the sublime is the key thrill of the work. The problem with this book here is that the stories are actually interesting, and especially given the subject matter, we can’t help but think that it’s all going to culminate in some kind of… culmination. Instead it ends on an intentionally, aggressively sour note.

One thing I had forgotten about in the ~10 years since I read the first couple My Struggle books is how hilariously awkward Knausgaard’s dialogue is. He uses a lot of exclamation points and all caps, which always strikes me as the way a child would show that someone in a story is angry. I guess it’s not so strange that someone so good at tracing the grueling circuit of a thought through time and space would kinda suck at actually making his characters talk.
… (mais)
hdeanfreemanjr | 14 outras críticas | Jan 29, 2024 |



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