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A review by erickibler4
My Struggle, Book 3 by Karl Ove Knausgård
5.0
This is my favorite Knausgaard so far. It can be read as a standalone memoir of childhood. I often wish I felt things as strongly as I did in childhood, such was the pleasure of each new experience. But Knausgaard reminds me that, just as pleasure was more intense then, so was pain. And boy, did childhood have a lot of emotional pain. On second thought, strike that wish. I wouldn't be able to take it.
A twelve year old boy can fall in love with as much intensity as a grown man can, even though he doesn't yet understand all the vagaries of what makes a relationship. In fact, maybe that lack of understanding makes it all the more tragic. And rejection for a twelve year old goes down hard, feels like the end of the world. The kid who still lives in me, who always felt like a reject and an outsider, has found a kindred spirit in the young Knausgaard. The difference is that in my case, I learned to keep a stone face--keep all the hurt inside, whereas he was one of those kids who cried easily, compounding his social problems.
But I'm sure glad my dad wasn't like his. This book will make you grateful for your own good parents. What a miserable and cruel father old man Knausgaard was! And what a tragedy for him that he's now immortalized in this book.
By turns familiar, funny, joyful, and heart-wrenching, I think this is my favorite book I've read so far this year. At least it's the one that speaks the most personally to me. It turned over some old earth for me, both in wistful and unsettling ways.
A twelve year old boy can fall in love with as much intensity as a grown man can, even though he doesn't yet understand all the vagaries of what makes a relationship. In fact, maybe that lack of understanding makes it all the more tragic. And rejection for a twelve year old goes down hard, feels like the end of the world. The kid who still lives in me, who always felt like a reject and an outsider, has found a kindred spirit in the young Knausgaard. The difference is that in my case, I learned to keep a stone face--keep all the hurt inside, whereas he was one of those kids who cried easily, compounding his social problems.
But I'm sure glad my dad wasn't like his. This book will make you grateful for your own good parents. What a miserable and cruel father old man Knausgaard was! And what a tragedy for him that he's now immortalized in this book.
By turns familiar, funny, joyful, and heart-wrenching, I think this is my favorite book I've read so far this year. At least it's the one that speaks the most personally to me. It turned over some old earth for me, both in wistful and unsettling ways.