I'm sitting here trying to contain myself now that My Struggle has come to The End. Where do you even begin with a series this extensive? Weighing in at over 1,150 pages and 3 lbs. (yes, I weighed it), we have Karl Ove Knausgaard in one corner; the rest of the world in the other. It's a title fight. A championship. I was in the front row and Karl Ove went the distance.
Unlike the other five books, this final book is so meta. In it, Karl Ove is contemplating life since and during publication of the other previous books in the series while also writing this current one, offering a unique perspective on his novels and where his life was taking him now that he was gaining celebrity status. It was otherworldly seeing the impact that his books had on his family, friends and self. While most of his family and friends expressed support of his previous novels, it was near impossible for them not to directly have some sort of impact on each of them, even when their names had been changed. Keen reporters would show up at their houses unannounced trying to get insider information. Journalists would break promises, saying one thing and delivering another. Most notably, one of Karl Ove's uncles was absolutely livid, claiming that events surrounding his brother's and mother's lives (Karl Ove's father's and grandmother's) had been horribly misrepresented and their names dragged through the mud for monetary gain. Most evident in this last book was the possible impact Karl Ove's books had on his current wife, Linda. The last couple of hundred pages led us through her suffering a major mental breakdown, however whether or not this was the direct result of being written about or if it was older symptoms recurring is not obvious, as mental illness is something she was diagnosed with years ago before she met and married the author.
Still present and pervading (as in all of the other books in this series) is Karl Ove's unflinching, deep, dark shame. It's palpable. The most seemingly innocuous things, such as driving above the speed limit, fill him with days of shame, so one can only imagine how his everyday interactions and close analysis of his life just overpower him with emotion. His is a person who feels deeply. Although his self-esteem is truly at base level, he was still incredibly brave to write in such detail about his life. As he says himself, in everyday life, no one ever knows the true us - our deepest thoughts and interactions are all buried within us and it's therefore impossible to ever really know another person one hundred percent. We say the things that placate and please others all the while running an internal dialogue that would dispel any version of our selves that others know. Even when we're not being especially nice, when we're fighting or in turmoil, no one ever hears our most harsh thoughts. What Karl Ove does is shows us exactly what he's thinking, so whenever he relays scenarios or conversations, we read his innermost rebuttals that beforehand were only in his head. In turn, those people that are closest to him - the people he's written about - read all of these true feelings, leaving Karl Ove exposed and vulnerable. This, of course, creates tension among certain people, but while this approach created some awkward schoolyard pickups, dinner dates and family meals, he holds steadfast to his decision to not wash over anything to spare his or others' feelings. It's all part of the formula that keeps the readers thoroughly engaged with his writing.
I can't review this book without mentioning the 400+ pages entitled The Name and the Number in which he analyzes: the importance of names, provides a detailed examination of poetry, characters in classics, God, death, night and nothingness and an in-depth review of Hitler's entire life, as he read Mein Kampf - (My Struggle - also the same name as his series). There is also a recurring interpretation throughout of I/we/they theories and how people belong to and are seen in the world. He notes that this section is what he started with when writing this book, but it just felt to me like the longest, never-ending detour. I was getting right into the original story - literally reading with a smile on my face throughout the first few hundred pages - as I plunged back into Karl Ove's life, so to have this gigantic non-fiction book placed within this other book just made no sense to me. I almost struggle to say something good about this section, because it comes so out of left field. Well...I certainly learned a lot about Hitler. My history knowledge is sadly lacking in many areas, so at least a learned quite a bit. Also, for someone who states that he's no good at understanding poetry, he certainly disproved that - the parts where he referenced poetry felt like an English professor's discourse in the art of deconstructing a poem; he distilled practically every word down to its most likely meaning, incorporating history, language and context. Kudos must also be given to the translator of this entire body of work - with so many turns of phrase, not to mention the sheer length of the novel, and to have it all ring true from start to finish, was a great feat.
Partway through this section, I started grasping at straws as to why this extensive essay-like information was included within this book. Does it go back to Karl Ove's interest in utopia? His own fearful father/son dynamic that's closely mirrored in that of Hitler and his own father? His parallel discomfort with women? Perhaps analysis of a same-named book? In any case, it was maddening to me, but I kept at it, anticipating getting through it and back to Karl Ove's family life in Malmo...
...which it did eventually. I am so happy I stuck through the whole thing and read this acclaimed series. Although outwardly simplistic in theory, it somehow becomes anything but. It's an ordinary yet compulsive look at a life lived so far to middle age. It's about family, friendship, coffee, feelings, love, self-analysis, loathing, book tours, shame, detritus, money, home, a brain, a body, a life. It's uniquely Karl Ove Knausgaard. A man who doesn't give a shit at all what any of us think about his books.
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