He’s more concerned with all the big “W” questions that surround hurt and love rather than making absolute statements about anybody’s true good-or-badness. The experiment confounds him, and in the self-referential portions that deal directly with the in-the-moment writing of what we are holding in our hands, he seems aware that he has failed at whatever he is doing indeed, maybe he was always destined to fail by virtue of this being one of the most easily gawkable collection of books ever produced, but what’s easiest to tell is that he isn’t trying to take revenge on any of the real-life people he writes about his relationships with. If what we take away from the experience is a desire to judge him, that could be fine, because at no point does he impress on us what he wishes we’d take away. With obsessive-compulsive aplomb, nearly every page of “My Struggle”, across all the volumes, asks us to look at the man who has written them both as a creation and a human being. I knew by the end of book 5 that I would finish the next and final book with an unbearable hankering to write about it, no matter how private and unseen such a document would go down. Why am I here, then, days since finishing Book 6 and with no clue what to write in response to these 3,600 pages that I have spent the last 10 months poring over? The purpose of my own writing is to be heard where I thought I could not speak. My thoughts are not called on for anything. I have not been asked what my thoughts are about this enterprise. Sitting here on a drowsy, cloudy Thursday morning, in the midst of a year characterized by indecisiveness and hiding, I am at a loss as to what to say about Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “My Struggle”.
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