Many writers are praised for their honesty - Karl Ove is so honest that you imagine he probably doesn’t get invited to many parties anymore. And you can only imagine some of the conversations he must have had with his wife after she read this... This is the kind of candour that few writers - few people - are brave or reckless enough to attempt.
In this extract from a longer work, Knausgaard lays bare the boredom and frustration which are inseparable from parenting young children, but which are impolite to talk about. But this is no plea for sympathy - it’s almost the opposite, a challenge to the reader to see just how much brutal honesty we can take. In one particularly devastating episode, Knausgaard attends a baby “rhythm time” with his daughter, which for him is tantamount to torture, not improved at all by the fact he fancies the twentysomething woman who is leading the session. Most of the attending parents are mums, but there is one other dad who gives him a friendly nod, which makes Knausgaard want to kick him. Pushing a buggy around Stockholm, he feels “modern and feminised, with a furious nineteenth-century man inside me”. He appears to regret that he didn’t have sufficient foresight to warn his wife, “listen, I want children, but I don’t want to stay at home looking after them, is that fine with you?”
Presumably many men, taking a larger role in childcare duties than their fathers and grandfathers did, have similar feelings. They know that it’s fair for them to do more. And if they’re like Knausgaard, they even do it (though let’s not kid ourselves the battle for equality is won). But even if they intellectually accept a more equitable division of parental labour, something inside these men resents it, feels emasculated. Age-old attitudes die hard.
The book’s back cover poses the question, “How to be a good father?” It’s a slight case of misselling, because that isn’t a question Knausgaard really asks or answers. I suspect most fathers of young children don’t ask themselves this either. We are too busy changing nappies, doing dishes or picking up the kids from dance class. We know what we have to do; the struggle is doing it, day after day.
We probably shouldn’t feel too sorry for ourselves though. After all, it could be worse - we could be mothers.