Autobiography

Dancing in the Dark (My Struggle, Book 4) by Karl Ove Knausgaard

By Karl Ove Knausgaard

The fourth a part of a sensational literary cycle that has been hailed as "perhaps an important literary company of our times." (Rachel Cusk, Guardian)
18 years outdated and clean out of highschool, Karl Ove Knausgård strikes to a tiny fisherman's village some distance north of the polar circle to paintings as a college instructor. He has little interest in the activity itself -- or in the other activity for that subject. His purpose is to save lots of up sufficient funds to commute whereas discovering the gap and time to begin his writing occupation. firstly every thing appears to be like advantageous: He writes his first few brief tales, reveals himself authorised by way of the hospitable locals and gets flattering awareness from numerous appealing neighborhood women.
yet then, because the darkness of the lengthy polar nights begin to hide the gorgeous panorama, Karl Ove's lifestyles additionally takes a darker flip. The tales he writes are likely to repeat themselves, his consuming escalates and explanations a few traumatic blackouts, his repeated makes an attempt at wasting his virginity result in humiliation and disgrace, and to his personal misery he additionally develops romantic emotions in the direction of one in every of his 13-year-old scholars. alongside the best way, there are flashbacks to his highschool years and the roots of his present difficulties. after which there's the shadow of his father, whose sharply expanding alcohol intake serves as an ominous backdrop to Karl Ove's personal lifestyle.

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Extra info for Dancing in the Dark (My Struggle, Book 4)

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Tragedy, no matter how sad, becomes boring to those not caught in its addictive caress. I watched my host, so sympathetic at the outset, become increasingly less interested in me and my distress. After a few weeks in his house, his discomfort even penetrated my self-centeredness. When Julian and Ana Livia Mayfield allowed me to store my books and clothes at their house, I gave my host only perfunctory thanks, and moved into a tiny room at the local YWCA I focused my attention on myself, with occasional concentrations on Guy.

Then she could exercise her sharp mind and quick tongue on anyone within hearing range. The wise Vicki said, “What Africa needs is help. ” Alice grinned, warming up. She said, “I’ve never seen Africa as a woman, and somewhere I resent the use of any sexual pronoun to describe this complex continent. It’s not he or she. ” The visitors looked disapprovingly at us all. The need to believe in Africa’s maternal welcome was painfully obvious. They didn’t want to know that they had not come home, but had left one familiar place of painful memory for another strange place with none.

Racial loyalties and cultural attachments had become meaningless. Trying utterly, I could not match Guy’s stoicism. He lay calm, week after week, in a prison of plaster from which only his face and one leg and arm were visible. His assurances that he would heal and be better than new drove me into a faithless silence. Had I been less timid, I would have cursed God. Had I come from a different background, I would have gone further and denied His very existence. Having neither the courage nor the historical precedent, I raged inside myself like a blinded bull in a metal stall.

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