Of the Shadow Panelists for this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, only Jacqui (@Jacquiwine) does not have her own blog, so when she asked if she could post the odd thought or two here at my place, I was happy to oblige. Here, then, is her take on one of the favourites for this year's prize - a big book from an old friend...
*****
A Man in Love (translated by Don Bartlett) begins by pitching us straight into the action, into
a bit of a ‘domestic’ in fact, as we join Karl Ove Knausgaard in the middle of
a summer holiday in Tjorn, near Gothenburg. The time is July 2008, and these
opening scenes paint a candid picture of the reality of Karl Ove’s family life
with Linda, his second wife, and their three children (Vanya, Heidi and John).
All the tensions of trying to occupy and manage the needs of their three young
children are centre stage:
…so twenty minutes later we
found ourselves on a high, narrow and very busy bridge, grappling with two
buggies, hungry, and with only an industrial area in sight. Linda was furious,
her eyes were black, we were always getting into situations like this, she
hissed, no one else did, we were useless, now we should be eating, the whole
family, we could have been really enjoying ourselves, instead we were out here
in a gale-force wind with cars whizzing by, suffocating from exhaust fumes on
this bloody bridge. Had I ever seen any other families with three children
outside in situations like this?
p.5 (Harvill Secker, 2013)
It’s a compelling opening, and one that immediately captured my
interest. The book starts at this point
and returns to these scenes towards the end. In between these bookends, a number
of other strands run through the narrative, all of which come together to form
the crux of Karl Ove’s story.
In one sense – perhaps unsurprisingly given the book’s title – this
is a story of how Karl Ove falls in love with Linda. At this point the timeline
flips back to the early 2000s. Having suddenly upped and left Tonje, his wife
and partner of eight years, Karl Ove moves from Norway to Stockholm and
reconnects with Linda, a writer he first encountered at the Biskops-Arno
writers’ workshop. They meet several times for coffee, the occasional drink in
a bar, and while it’s clear they are attracted to one another, they seem unable
to express their real feelings in order to move beyond mere small talk. Unable
to deal with this paralysis any longer, Karl Ove decides to pour out his heart
in a letter to Linda:
I wrote down what she meant
to me. I wrote what she had been for me when I saw her for the first time and
what she was now. I wrote about her lips sliding over her teeth when she got
excited. I wrote about her eyes, when they sparkled and when they opened their
darkness and seemed to absorb light. I wrote about the way she walked, the
little, almost mannequin-like, waggle of her backside. I wrote about her tiny
Japanese features. I wrote about her laughter, which could sometimes wash over
everything, how I loved her then. I wrote about the words she used most often,
how I loved the way she said ‘stars’ and the way she flung around the word
‘fantastic’. I wrote that all this was what I had seen, and that I didn’t know
her at all, had no idea what ran through her mind and very little about how she
saw the world and the people in it, but that what I could see was enough. I
knew I loved her and always would. (p.194)
I won’t reveal exactly how the couple get together, but clearly they
do. Here’s Karl Ove in the glow-zone of the first flushes of love:
For the first time in my
life I was completely happy. For the first time there was nothing in my life
that could overshadow the happiness I felt. We were together constantly,
suddenly reaching for each other at traffic lights, across a restaurant table,
on buses, in parks, there were no demands or desires except for each other. I
felt utterly free, but only with her, the moment we were apart I began to have
yearnings. (p 201)
As time passes, however, the heightened intensity of the first
flushes of love fades away. Children arrive and A Man in Love taps into Karl
Ove’s search for meaning in his everyday existence:
Everyday life, with its
duties and routines, was something I endured, not a thing I enjoyed, not
something that was meaningful or made me happy. This had nothing to do with a
lack of desire to wash floors or change nappies but rather with something more
fundamental: the life around me was not meaningful. I always longed to be away
from it, and always had done. So the life I led was not my own. I tried to make
it mine, this was my struggle, because of course I wanted it, but I failed, the
longing for something else undermined all my efforts. (p. 59-60)
In some sense, I think part of what Knausgaard is trying to do here
is to find a way of navigating normality, those flat periods between the peaks
of intensity that life throws his (and our) way. We experience periods of
extreme emotional sharpness in our lives. Our teenage years where everything is
hyper-intense, falling in love, the birth of a child, the adrenaline rush from
moments of success, a death in the family. But it’s trying to find meaning and
fulfilment in the everyday that presents a challenge for Karl Ove, despite the
fact he clearly loves and feels great tenderness towards his family:
At the traffic lights
across from us a car was revving, and when I turned my head I saw the sound was
coming from one of those enormous jeep-like vehicles that had begun to fill our
streets in recent years. The tenderness I felt for Vanja was so great it was
almost tearing me to pieces. To counteract it, I broke into a jog. (p. 54)
For Knausgaard, perhaps the key to all this is being able to free up
sufficient space and time for his work as a writer… and this topic forms another
strand within the narrative. Here, an interview with a journalist causes him to
reflect on his frustrations as a writer, and difficulties in being able to
devote sufficient time to his calling:
I had one opportunity. I had to cut all my ties with the flattering,
thoroughly corrupt world of culture in which everyone, every single little upstart,
was for sale, cut all my ties with the vacuous TV and newspaper world, sit down
in a room and read in earnest, not contemporary literature but literature of
the highest quality, and then write as if my life depended on it. For twenty
years if need be. (p. 459)
And yet the minutiae and demands of his family life are stopping
him, and he lays bare his feelings for the reader to see:
But I couldn’t grasp the
opportunity. I had a family and I owed it to them to be there. I had friends.
And I had a weakness in my character which meant that I would say yes, yes,
when I wanted to say no. no, which was so afraid of hurting others, which was
so afraid of conflict and which was so afraid of not being liked that it could
forgo all principles, all dreams, all opportunities, everything that smacked of
truth, to prevent this happening. (p. 459-460)
This is my first experience of Knausgaard and I found it utterly
compelling and addictive. I’m reading this year’s IFFP longlist (along with
Stu, Tony, Bellezza, Tony and David) and as I didn’t have time to start with A
Death in the Family – My Struggle: Book 1, I pitched straight in with A Man in
Love.
I’m finding it a little hard to pinpoint exactly why I found
this book so gripping, but I think a large part of it has to do with the sense
that these are real people Knausgaard is showing us here. Real people with real
names and real lives, that’s how it appears to me. And he’s laying himself and
his emotions bare with extreme candour. Nothing is held back, flaws and all. Even
though he internalises many of his own emotions and avoids conflict in social
situations, we, the readers, gain access to his innermost thoughts right down
to their essence.
Maybe there’s also an element of my recognising many of the demands
and challenges he describes in raising three small children all very close to
one another in age. I’ve seen the exhaustion and mix of emotions this can
trigger in friends and family in similar situations and can empathise.
Part of the appeal (for me) also stems from the way in which the
narrative unfolds. It doesn’t follow a conventional narrative arc and as a
reader there’s the allure of not knowing quite where Karl Ove is going to take
us next. Alongside the story of Karl Ove and Linda’s family life, children’s
parties and wandering around Stockholm with a buggy, he spins off into topics
including existential discussions on the meaning of Hölderlin’s poems, the
value in innocence and purity, cultural differences between Sweden and Norway
and many more. We meet various friends and family members, all vividly painted
in such a way that conveys their distinct personalities and demeanours. There are flashes of painful humour, too;
the acute embarrassment and humiliation Karl Ove feels when dancing
with Vanya at baby Rhythm Time class, his irritation at Swedish middle-class
parents for plying children with wholesome vegetable crudités at a toddler’s
party and his encounters with the neighbour from hell. It’s all here.
This is my fifth book from the IFFP longlist and while I’ve yet to
read the other ten I’d be surprised if A Man in Love doesn’t make the
shortlist. Once I’ve worked through the
remaining books on the longlist I’m sure I’ll read A Death in Family along
with forthcoming instalments as they appear… I suspect I’m in for the long haul
now.
