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I picked up Knausgaard because a friend has been reading him. I have to admit the trepidation of the book with the author reminding me of the existentialist of similar name and the content resembling difficult poetry.

I know little about him and Google results are more hilarious than insightful. One page compare him to Kierkegaard while another compares him to the Kardashians.

Another top result was a feminist screed that concludes no male writer will ever be worthwhile as males have never known struggle. She then lists a dozen writes (of which Knausgaard is one)- the most well regarded white male writers of the last century. To be fair, with a couple of exceptions, I can’t stand those buzzed about writers she listed.

But I ended up liking Knausgaard a lot. I didn’t opt for his most famous title - the unfortunately named My Struggle (seriously?) but one of his works that was written as letters to an unborn daughter that almost reads like a journal (Autumn).

Criticism online says it sounds like he is working through writing prompts and perhaps it does. It goes from what might otherwise be Andy Rooney/ stand up comedy stuff like Jellyfish, Ambulances and Petrol (Oil) to occasional unmentionables (Vomit, Piss, Labia) to some real insight like Van Gogh and Flaubert.

At the end of the day, a great writer will make anything seem insightful and I find Knausgaard completely charming. Its art, so I can’t put my finger on it, and I am trying not to badmouth anyone by name, some avoids the “look at me I am a genius� cliche so many modern writers fall into.

Each topic is roughly two pages, just long enough to not wear out its welcome. The much regarded “My Struggle� is likely a very different book but this means I might tackle it. Like Henry Miller, I am not sure why I feel a particular pull to a writer that isn’t nominally different but somehow has a magical way of putting words together in an interesting order.