A Death in the Family (My Struggle #1)

by Karl Ove Knausgård

I have always had a great need for solitude. I require huge swathes of loneliness, and when I do not have it, which has been the case for the last five years, my frustration can sometimes become almost panicked, or aggressive. And when what has kept me going for the whole of my adult life, the ambition to write something exceptional one day, is threatened in this way my one thought, which gnaws at me like a rat, is that I have to escape. Time is slipping away from me, running through my fingers like sand while I … do what?

‘What were they like?’ he asked. ‘What were what like?’ ‘Her breasts, of course.’ ‘They were great. Just the right size and firm. Very firm. Stood up even though she was lying down.’ ‘You bastard. It’s not true.’ ‘It is, for Christ’s sake.’ ‘Bloody hell.’