Karl Ove Knausgaard cannot stop fucking writing. And if you’re like me and not, say, a Barnes & Noble employee stuck with the Sisyphean task of finding shelf space for all of his everexpanding works, that’s a good thing. Because I cannot stop fucking reading him. I almost wouldn’t call it reading, it’s devouring in the truest Saturnian sense of the word. I pillage the books he writes. They’re nourishment for me. He could write a phone book and I would scan every dotted line, read every ad, Google image every obliquely referenced painting that I’m sure he would find a way to fit in. He makes me feel legitimate existential woe just about once a page when I realize that I likely won’t remember a given sentence that he’s used to beautifully convey something about the human spirit. So when I saw that the first thing he published after his exegetic magnum opus, My Struggle, was a collection of essays I dutifully and willfully picked up In the Land of the Cyclops the second I saw it on a bookstore shelf.
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