Saturday, November 11, 2017

Karl Ove Knausgaard


I'm not sure which way the reviews went, ultimately, when it comes to Karl Ove Knausgaard's most recent work, Autumn, but then, part of me doesn't care: I found Knausgaard's essays a strange and enticing mixture. Here is a celebration of the quotidian, a paean to the commonplace; here are vignettes wrapped in a protective coating; here is a shield, a voice for what we know to exist, but to which we do not always assign meaning. 

I've written before on the blog about works that I consider too precious: among these are novels by Updike, for instance. But there's a difference, I think, between being precious and poignant, and Knausgaard's essays are the latter: meaningful, restrained, emotive. In the mundane, he locates significance; in the ordinary, he identify substance. I found these reflections -- couched, in part, as an extended dialogue with Knausgaard's unborn daughter -- to be refreshing in their originality, tender in their resolve. 

Some critics have found the observations here to be cliched or sentimental; this, I think, is unfair, and is to expect of short essays something reserved for the novel. Knausgaard's goal in Autumn is not to disrupt our sense of daily routine; it is instead to celebrate that routine, and to remind us of its majesty. I found the collection supremely refreshing -- and given the weight of the world, a welcome and timely respite. 

2 comments:

  1. I really appreciated this review. I have just now bought the book, thanks to you. I had read many reviews but was still undecided until yours.

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  2. Thanks so much, Gary, for your kind response. You'll have to let us know what you think of the collection...

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