[REVIEW] My Struggle

Bookended by weeks of coma-inducing monotony in Hamilton, my trip to New York City in June was the clear highlight of my summer. It was my first time in the bustling metropolis and after a week of excitement I was glad that I was able to take in the splendours the city had to offer on my own terms.

Perusing the titles available at The Strand, wandering Columbia’s campus, seeking shelter from a storm in the New York Public Library, lusting after the #menswear that SoHo had to offer, and enjoying the amazing pizza at Grimaldi’s were terrific experiences. So was attending a gallery opening, and sitting down with Noah Callahan-Bever, editor-in-chief of Complex magazine, in his mid-town office to shoot the shit about rap and his relationship with Kanye. In talking to my writer friends there, I had never felt so stimulated and excited about what life had to offer after school.

But what makes me laugh fondly the most in retrospect is that I had three opportunities to see Karl Ove Knausgaard speak and missed them all through some cruel twist of fate. The renowned Norwegian writer had been in the city to promote the release of the newly translated third iteration of his six-volume autobiographical novel, entitled My Struggle.

Despite bearing a title reminiscent of Hitler’s own book of the same name, the autobiographical novel boasts much more appeal than one would think when moving past its immediate shock value.

What began as a free-flowing exercise of unchecked writing about his own life that Knausgaard hoped would help him out of a creative block in turn leveraged him to a level of superstardom that has forced him to abandon his life in Stockholm and move his family to the countryside. Knausgaard undertook the project unaware that it would displace him from his comfortable role as a well-respected figure in the Scandinavian literary scene, to a writer who would fiercely divide the press and public on the topic of how much of one’s private life is appropriate to expose.

Growing up in Norway in the 1970’s, Knausgaard recently told the Evening Standard that the order of the day was, “you don’t cry, and you don’t complain.” Knausgaard’s own father was adamant in enforcing this rigidness in his son, and it would psychologically scar the young Knausgaard to the point where he became afraid of his father. The struggle in the title is a reference to the weight that Knausgaard’s father would have on his shoulders even after his death, while he simultaneously tried to juggle his own ambitions and raise his children.

I had picked up the first volume of My Struggle in a Manhattan Barnes and Noble early on in my stay, and I became utterly engrossed in the dry prose, which somehow crackled with energy despite its barebones nature. It was only when browsing the New Yorker on my phone in JFK while waiting for my flight home that I noticed that the writer had made not just one, but three appearances in the city (notably, one with Zadie Smith moderating, which would have been a dream to witness) while I was blissfully unaware.

Refusing to remain dismayed, I ploughed through the other two volumes upon arriving home. Perhaps ploughed is not the right word, for it suggests physical exertion when I was really spellbound by the events of his life that Knausgaard so artfully composed into a palatable — and at times gut-wrenching — narrative.

The first volume concerns itself largely with Knausgaard’s adolescence and his relationship with his father as well as the rest of his immediate family and friends. As much as the book is made emotionally heavy by Knausgaard’s father’s iron-fisted presence, it is also made buoyant by the awkward accounts of attending parties he wasn’t invited to with alcohol that was obtained and hidden from parents at great expense.

Knausgaard has an astounding memory and unlike James Frey, proves himself to be a patron of accuracy rather than fabrication. The works are Proustian in their self-reflexive subject matter, but are much easier to digest than the French writer’s notoriously dense In Search of Lost Time. Knausgaard is unflinching in writing about his own life which has given rise to the detriment of his family members, some of whom who have publicly railed against his inclusion of their private matters in his work.

Even after finishing the third volume this July, not a week has gone by that I haven’t thought of Knausgaard’s intensely personal exposé. In writing a work that confronted the banality and suffering in his own life, Knausgaard opened the floodgates in his own and other generations’ consciousness to reveal similar painful memories.

Despite his frankly expressed distaste for doing press, I’m massively excited to see my luck come full circle and bestow me with the opportunity to see Knausgaard speak at Toronto’s Harbourfront Centre on Oct. 25 as part of the annual International Festival of Authors. I’m even more pleased that one of my favourite Torontonian writers, Sheila Heti, will be the one to interview Knausgaard.

The event is free for students, so you have no excuse not to humour your curiosity. Just don’t pick up any of the My Struggle books during this busy time in the school year or you will be forced to shove all other obligations to the side.