It was a serendipitous August afternoon in Ystad, Sweden, when the acclaimed Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard unexpectedly appeared. Ahead of schedule and with minimal notice, he arrived to collect me from my hotel in this quaint medieval resort town, as documented in a compelling profile within the Wall Street Journal Magazine. Even amidst a bustling crowd, Knausgaard’s towering 6-foot-4 frame, crowned with a mane of silver hair, piercing ice-blue eyes, and strikingly rugged features, would render him instantly recognizable. Yet, Ystad remained tranquil, the street deserted, allowing his presence to dominate the scene. He stood beside a modest white VW van, a Chesterfield cigarette smoldering between his fingers, clad in a dark jacket paired with artistically ripped jeans. Approaching him felt akin to stepping onto the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album, a stark contrast to the literary titan rumored to be a Nobel Prize contender. This unassuming man, driving a well-worn van filled with the everyday paraphernalia of family life – toys, scattered CDs, and a child’s car seat – is the very author behind an epic autobiographical saga, a work plumbing “the tormented inner life of one male,” as he himself describes it.
My initial encounter with Knausgaard occurred in the spring of 2014, following the release of the third volume of his monumental 3,600-page autobiographical novel, My Struggle. This event, a standing-room-only talk at the New York Public Library, came on the heels of significant attention, including features in publications like the Wall Street Journal Magazine [link to WSJ article if available]. The throng of literary enthusiasts surrounding him made approach nearly impossible, a stark departure from his earlier New York visit in 2012. Back then, a small coterie of early admirers gathered at the intimate 192 Books in Chelsea to hear him speak. Overwhelmed by anxiety, he confessed to the moderator, Lorin Stein, editor of The Paris Review, “If anyone leaves while we’re talking I won’t be able to go on.”
This past summer offered a more intimate glimpse into Knausgaard’s life, spending three days traversing Scandinavia. From the pastoral landscapes of Glemmingebro, southern Sweden, his home with his wife, poet and novelist Linda Boström, and their four young children, to nearby Ystad, and finally to Oslo, where I witnessed him give a reading from his latest work, Om høsten (In Fall). At Oslo’s Kulturhuset cafe, his body subtly swayed, a visible manifestation of the anxiety that still clung to him, even as he read in his deep, melodic Norwegian, met by the exuberant appreciation of the audience. Despite the accolades and growing readership discussed in outlets like the Wall Street Journal Magazine, the nerves persisted. “The way I am hasn’t changed, the way I feel hasn’t changed, the success doesn’t help at all in regard to that,” he reflected. “A way of being has nothing to do with what happens to you; it’s completely irrelevant.” This enduring sense of self, regardless of external validation, is a key takeaway from any encounter with Knausgaard, whether in person or through the insightful pages of publications like the Wall Street Journal Magazine.
