My struggle

As you may have gathered from my other blog, Frog and I have been on holiday. Frog devours books while we’re away – at least one a day – but I like to give my brain a rest. I spend a lot of time staring into space, relishing the peace.

One book I did read however is the above (A Death in the Family by Karl Ove Knausgaard). It’s the first in a series of six (called 'My Struggle'), which has caused a sensation all over the world. Even before I’d heard about the series, I’d picked up number 3 in the bookshop almost by accident (being part-Norwegian myself, I'm interested in anything Norwegian which this is) and been riveted by the opening paragraph.

The book is an extraordinary mixture of novel, memoir and philosophical treatise, at times boring and at times brilliant. I kept finding myself folding down corners of pages, because the author had said something so perfect that I didn’t want to forget it. (Frog would be horrified. He treats books with the greatest respect. I, on the other hand, like books to look lived in. Funnily enough, we’re the other way round when it comes to houses and clothes.)

One paragraph in particular expressed exactly what I feel all the time but have never had the courage to articulate to anyone but Frog. Here it is.

I have always had a great need for solitude. I require huge swathes of loneliness, and when I do not have it, which has been the case for the last five years, my frustration can sometimes become almost panicked, or aggressive. And when what has kept me going for the whole of my adult life, the ambition to write something exceptional one day, is threatened in this way my one thought, which gnaws at me like a rat, is that I have to escape. Time is slipping away from me, running through my fingers like sand while I . . .  do what? Clean floors, wash clothes, make dinner, wash up, go shopping . . .

Next week, when we have sorted ourselves out after the holiday, I intend to get back to The Novel. Wish me luck.