The Struggle of Meeting Karl Ove Knausgaard
Being cool in the presence of genius.
Never one to judge a metaphorical book by its cover, I do tend to judge actual books by their covers.
So when my eyes fell upon Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard’s initial installment of My Struggle, I was drawn immediately to its cover image — his striking face is all Nordic seriousness, eyes of endless blue, framed in greying hair and wizened just enough to suggest a life if not lived well, certainly well-lived.
Yeah, he is dreamy. The Karl Ove seen in these photos brings out strange, overly-romanticized, icy visions in me. I picture him in various scenarios. I watch him cut a hole in the ice and begin fishing. He takes his time. I watch him chop a gnarled tree into rough-hewn fuel for our fire. Every piece is of equal length. I watch him scrawling 14,000 words a night by candlelight on a communal table made from the beams of a Viking ship. I gently remind him to brush back his hair so it doesn’t get too close to the flame.
Then I actually begin reading his book.
Fifty or so pages into his writing, the dreamy Karl Ove is gone, and the real one takes his place. In many ways, the real one is infinitely better, more satisfying, more a scribe reflecting some of my own experiences and more a flawed human being who somehow found enough spark in his own head to ignite his 46 years into six massive volumes of memoir.
I devour the first installment in a matter of days. I wake up early in the morning to read it. I take it with me to the office. I plow through its last hundred pages in a single sitting. I post photos of the book on social media. Granted, I have come to it late, a few years after its publication. So although I am not an early adopter, that doesn’t deter me from evangelizing its merits.
“It’s not like anything else I’ve read,” I espouse. I ponder purchasing a dozen copies and passing them out on streetcorners. I am moved, I am inspired, I am touched, I am gooey with admiration. I begin to think not just about Karl Ove Knausgaard’s writing; I begin to think like him. After all, we are nearly exactly the same age; we’re both relatively curmudgeonly; we both had complicated relationships with our fathers, who died the same year; we both smoke; we’re both thinkers.
I begin My Struggle: Book Two with aplomb. I am hooked. If Karl Ove showed up at my doorstep in a robe and sandals, I would have left my net and followed him (well, if he’d shown up in a robe and sandals and if I were a fisherman in Bible times…you get the point). I struggle, ahem, a bit with the stream-of-consciousness, no-moment-left-undocumented style of the second book, and at the time of this writing I’m still not finished with it. But hey, it’s only been a month since I started the first one. I’ll savor each volume, like I do with Noosa yogurt. These books aren’t going anywhere. I’ve got a life to live, you know.
I awake early on a Sunday in early May to learn that a colleague, clearly aware of my Karl (L)ove, has messaged me to let me know that the writer will be here in San Francisco, this very afternoon, signing books at a little store in the Sunset. I go online immediately to pre-purchase Book Four, which guarantees my copy being signed by Karl Ove himself. Today. About four miles from where I now sit. This is a thing that will happen.
Now, I tend to invest quite a bit of my own emotion and passion into artists who inspire me. I also have the ability to recognize that I am indeed 46 years old. I have long passed the age when being a fanatic for an artist, writer, musician, chef, whatever, is either cool or socially acceptable. So bearing that in mind, I decide to play my meeting with Karl Ove Knausgaard as cool, as understated, as maturely as I possibly can. So even though I am excited, I don’t show it. I will not show it.
I think about what to say — that is, if I get the opportunity to say anything at all. I decide two things: I can’t be an ass, and I can’t rehearse some weird remark. So I’ll simply wing it, and say something I feel compelled to, whatever that may be, in that moment — sort of, you know, exactly how he writes his books.
I also decide I won’t be funny or cheeky. He doesn’t seem to be either, so cracking a joke or being “cute” would, I think, discredit my cool factor exponentially. I may as well wear a red nose and honk something at him.
The next thing I know, I’m in line at the bookstore with what appears to be 100 others, waiting to touch the robe of the creator. We are a bit of a ragtag bunch — young hipsters, older women of Scandinavian air, schlubby middle-aged white dudes — I myself appearing to be some combination of all of them. We are a gentle and well-behaved mass.
My pre-order permits me access to the front of the line. Well, number two in the line, it seems. Where did she come from? Some part of me feels a bit let down because I’m not the very first, but I soon get over it. The winner of the line is a woman of indeterminate fifties-ness, who clutches her book to her bosom like a missal. We make small talk. Her talk is slightly bigger than mine.
At 3 p.m. sharp, I turn toward the door, sensing something is happening, and in he strides — tall, lanky, intense, casually dressed for certain, but in that way only Europeans can really pull off. We Americans can do a lot, but we seem to be unable to master cool casual. We are either gym-ready or garden-ready, or we are dressed for a funeral.
I decide two things: I can’t be an ass, and I can’t rehearse some weird remark.
At this point, I feel the need to explain my sartorial choice of the day. I think about it way too much. I settle on dark jeans, a cool rock T-shirt, and a camel faux suede jacket. I’m casual! European-influenced! A real thinker. A lot of effort not to let the effort show, really. At least I don’t look too chubby in this outfit.
Karl Ove is accompanied by his wife, two daughters, and son — and this is slightly off-putting for those of us who have read intimate details of their lives together, and of his feelings toward them. I have the distinct feeling as the children brush past me that in 10 or 15 years, when they read and comprehend the details of their young lives in those volumes, that their relationship with their father will be cast in a different light. Maybe not. Maybe it’s not my business, nor is it the business of any of the other millions who have read this work; but even so, he’s kind of made it our business. The choices he makes to throw back the curtains and explain everything behind them are bold and occasionally shocking, but I suppose that’s what draws so many of us into his work.
He sits down in the children’s section at a long table with stacks of My Struggle: Book Four. We are permitted to approach the throne five humans at a time. I’m in luck. I’m in the first wave. Soon the woman in front of me is meeting him. She chats. And chats. Karl Ove appears slightly confused, yet gracious (a look I am certain stays on his face for the duration of the signing). I crane my neck a bit to listen. What is she saying?
She is telling him where to have dinner in San Francisco. And which parks his children will enjoy. And something about a community organization she’s involved in. I stand behind her in disbelief. The couple behind me similarly indicates their level of disbelief. We just can’t, if you will, even.
And then she’s gone and it’s my turn. I am two feet away from that silver hair, those piercing eyes, and as I hand him my book, the look he gives me says, You aren’t one of those people, too, are you? It was at once pleading and skeptical.
“Hi, I’m Scott.”
“Hello.” He begins to write. I believe I get a half-smile. I choose to believe I get a half-smile.
“Thank you for your work,” I say slowly, deliberately.
“Thank you.”
There is a slightly weird silence as he signs my book: To Scott, with all my best! The word “best” looks a bit like “sat,” but undoubtedly, I’ll treasure his best. Or his sat. He dates the signing (thoughtful), using the European method of writing the date (slightly confusing, but whatever), makes a mistake on the year, scratches out “‘14” and replaces it with “‘15” (super cute).
I notice a red pack of Marlboros a few feet away from him, on a stool beside his table. In the place where a warning label would be, there’s only a white square. That seems odd to me.
“You know, San Francisco is the worst place to be a smoker,” I blurt out.
“Oh, really?” Another look that seems to mean three things at once.
“Yes. I’ve been yelled at on the street for smoking.” Why am I saying this?
“You have?”
“Yes, an old man yelled at me. I suppose he felt it was his good deed for the day.” Again, why am I saying this?
Karl Ove is done signing my book, and there are many people behind me. I wonder if they too have thought about what to say to him. I can’t imagine the litany of oddities he will smile through and ride out in the next hour or so. Whatever he’s being paid for this is not nearly enough.
I thank him and walk away, past the crowd who look at me slightly enviously. Or maybe it’s me thinking they’re envious. Who cares? I float out of the bookstore with the flush of youth. I am blushing, hard.
Just outside the door I gingerly open the book and look again at his signature, at the pledge of his sat — all of it — and I place it carefully in my messenger bag.
I make sure I’m far enough away from the front door, and I light a cigarette. And I just stand there, smoking, still blushing, daring someone to disapprove.
