Why Do We Read Knausgaard?
By: Matthew Ward
Tags: Literature, Books, Essay, Reading, Book Review

Why Do We Read Knausgaard?

My struggle with My Struggle.

Photo by Michael Fousert on Unsplash

I’ve been reading Book 2 of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s epic autobiographical work My Struggle. I read Book 1 last year and felt a strange compulsion to continue on.

If you’re unaware of the phenomenon that is this book, a lot of people feel compelled to read it in the same way I did. The work is 6 books in total and clocks in around 3,600 pages. It has garnered huge literary acclaim across the world.

Writers such as Jonathan Lethem, Zadie Smith, Jeffrey Eugenides, and Rachel Cusk have praised it. It has received dozens of award nominations, longlists, shortlists, and even some wins.

Yet everyone agrees: it’s largely about nothing. We live in Knausgaard’s head without much plot development, forward momentum, or other literary devices that would keep someone reading for such a long period of time.

He’s been called the Proust of our time, and it got me wondering. Why do we read Knausgaard? I couldn’t articulate why I wanted to read Book 2. I even complained to my husband about how long and boring certain sections of Book 1 dragged on while reading it.

Yet there I found myself, hundreds of pages into Book 2.

These are my thoughts on what keeps bringing us back.

Is it Proustian?

Let’s start with an honest look at the most common comparison. Is My Struggle Proustian?

There are definitely some similarities to Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. First, it’s long. Proust’s novel is a seven-volume, 4,200-page tome. It also meanders in thought. Philosophical ramblings and memories of childhood speckle the novel.

I get why people make the comparison, but I think it’s fundamentally misleading.

In Search of Lost Time is a novel, and My Struggle is an autobiography. Proust had the leeway to construct scenes, symbols, characters, and plot to develop and reinforce the many themes of memory, loss, and art.

One of the things that most draws me into Proust is how deep he’ll go on a single object. Descriptions take you into a Zen-like meditation on life and meaning. Part of the beauty of Proust is in the long, meandering sentences and yet whole-work coherence.

The Narrator has an arc of learning to become an artist to gain back memories of time that feel lost forever. I’m sure overarching themes will emerge in Knausgaard as well (especially considering the title is the same as Hitler’s autobiography), though they aren’t as clear to me as in Proust.

Since this is an article on why we return to Knausgaard, I feel pretty confident in saying these Proustian aspects are not the things bringing me back. While Knausgaard certainly drew inspiration from Proust, the fundamental core of what makes My Struggle interesting is in something entirely different.

Knausgaard’s description is often practical. He’s recounting people, places, and events as they happened. In fact, some sections can be frustrating in how little detail we get. Events are often told in passing.

I’m not coming back to Knausgaard for the symbolic meditations or the elevation of the common. I returned to Book 2 for a different reason.

Relatability

I’ve heard it said that Knausgaard resonated with so many people because of its relatability. In reading about another person’s struggles with the same everyday annoyances as our own, we relate and feel less alone.

This was the concept of literature that David Foster Wallace popularized.

There’s definitely something to this. So much of My Struggle has to do with getting angry at tedious, standard chores: changing diapers, picking something up from the store, sleeping. There’s a naked realness that’s almost hard to look at because we all secretly know we feel the same way.

When we see his flaws, they reflect our own. His book forces us to examine our own lives as a sort of confrontation. There’s an ugliness to Karl Ove that we all possess, and the horror of this realization keeps us reading.

I, again, agree with some of this in part. But I also find this to not be the whole picture. In Book 2, he takes a piece of broken glass and cuts his face — over and over. I found this action totally confusing and baffling. I couldn’t relate at all.

He moves to another country with no plan, no job, no permanent residence, and spends his days in cafes, reading poetry. These are not things the average person has the privilege to do.

The overreactions that fill the book are probably deeply relatable to some, but I find it hard to believe most people identify with his actions when they go to this extreme.

And sure, I can see shards of deeper truths in these scenes that do force me to confront some of my own demons. But when I thought about reading Book 2, that wasn’t the thing bringing me back.

In fact, it was kind of the opposite.

Modernity and Voyeurism

Voyeurism has been a driving force of entertainment for quite some time now. Survivor came out twenty years ago. Reality TV consumes much of network ratings.

People put their lives on Facebook and other social media. Reading about other people’s lives and the current gossip could be our culture’s main source of entertainment these days.

I think it has been understated in the press how much of a role this has played in Knausgaard’s success. My Struggle is the Facebook feed that never ends. These are real people. It was real drama. We can’t turn away from the unending display of each of these people’s most embarrassing moments.

I don’t say that to be disparaging. Obviously, it’s excellent writing, unlike 99.99% of Facebook posts. I say it to point out that Knausgaard is tapping into this human condition. We like watching other lives.

This is why Knausgaard’s work is fundamentally different than Proust. We know Proust’s characters are invented (notwithstanding the clearly autobiographical elements). We return to Proust for the literature. We return to Knausgaard for the gossip.

There’s something almost inspiring about the way Knausgaard lays bare every embarrassing moment and thought he’s had. He just doesn’t care. He’s putting it all out there for his art.

Reading it inspires me to care less about what others think of my work. If he can write that, then I certainly can write this. I wonder if others feel this same sense of letting go.

We see that our own vices and worries are trivial in the grand scheme of the universe. And maybe that is part of what brings us back.

Subtlety

My Struggle is full of heartbreakingly subtle moments. This is another reason I came back to it.

My favorite scene of Book 1 is when Knausgaard goes to his grandmother’s house after his father dies. His father had moved into the house, and it was a complete wreck due to his father’s alcoholism. His grandmother is suffering from health problems.

The interaction between Knausgaard, his brother, and his grandmother is full of subtle nuance. Unlike a novel that would probably draw out the underlying subtext of the actions, all of the buried emotions here could go right over the reader’s head.

We aren’t told anything to help us. Yet everything in this section is described in minute detail. Most chillingly is the interplay between the three people broaching the subject of having a drink in the wake of the alcoholic destruction.

On the surface, nothing significant is happening. Underneath, everyone is processing the death and their grief or relief about it. This all comes across with a careful reading, but because we aren’t in the head of anyone except Knausgaard, it never gets explicitly stated.

The scene is a masterclass on careful, subtle writing, and the book is filled with these moments. There is no doubt that I picked up Book 2 hoping for more scenes like these.

My Struggle

My Struggle is a brilliant, important work with much to keep bringing us back to it. But I’d be lying if I made it sound like it was full of gripping epiphanies on every page.

The book is a struggle to get through, and so it should be surprising to us that so many people have committed themselves to finishing it. Once you start, if it clicks with you, there’s an almost addictive quality to reading it.

And still, if someone asks you what it’s about, it’s hard to answer. Hopefully, these musings on what brought me back have clarified your own thoughts on the subject.

My feelings toward the book remain complicated, but maybe that’s how it always is with great art.