Dancing in the Dark (My Struggle, # 4)

by Karl Ove Knausgård

But the ramifications and connections didn’t only exist between the records, they extended right into my own life. The music was linked with almost everything I had done, none of the records came without a memory. Everything that had happened in the last five years rose like steam from a cup when I played a record, not in the form of thoughts or reasoning, but as moods, openings, space. Some general, others specific. If my memories were stacked in a heap on the back of my life’s trailer, music was the rope that held them together and kept it, my life, in position.

I had never quite found the right tone with Tor Einar. We were the same age and had a good deal in common, much more than I and Nils Erik had, but it didn’t help, it was irrelevant. I always assumed a role when I was with Tor Einar, which wasn’t the case with Nils Erik, and I didn’t like myself when I did, when there was a distance between the person I was and what I said, a kind of delay that allowed space for calculations, as if I wanted to say what he preferred to hear rather than what I had to say or talk about. On the other hand, that is how I was with almost everyone, in fact it had even become like that with Jan Vidar, who was the closest friend I’d had for the last five years.