My Struggle: Book 6

by Karl Ove Knausgård

Is it my responsibility to validate that world, to fill it with value? Is that possible? Or is it empty, a simple, ongoing state of serial reproduction, copying itself and copying itself again, on and on into infinity? An emptiness that moreover is the foundation of our own biological reality, our life as human beings? If so, why do we imitate the emptiness of serial life in the culture we create? Should our culture not instead establish difference, which is the stuff of all worth, in which value resides and from which it is released, and thereby of all meaning? Does that meaning not exist? Or is it concealed? Concealed then by what means? Concealed by our social existence, whose differences exist in order to keep in place, not to set free, and which indeed keep us in place within our particular lives, our routine lives, from whose viewpoint