Yet this does not prevent me from identifying intensely with the scenes in the second book of My Struggle, in which an angry and frustrated Knausgaard wheels a stroller through the streets of Stockholm. He is a man, I am a woman I am half a generation older. There is more that separates than unites us. How could I fail to identify with a Norwegian writer from the south of Norway, whose mother and father, like my own, come from the west coast and Vest-Agder respectively a writer who, also like me, never lived in Oslo, went to university in Bergen, and left Norway to live abroad?Īt the same time, my identification is puzzling. Knausgaard moved into a new housing development in the southern region of Vest-Agder in the 1970s I had the same experience in the 1960s. Sociologically speaking this is not surprising, for Knausgaard's trajectory is reminiscent of my own. I read Karl Ove Knausgaard's My Struggle like most Norwegians: with passionate engagement and identification.
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