I finished Book I of My Struggle – all 441 pages. This is the first of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s six-book series that practically jumped into my arms at the library sale you heard about two weeks ago.
Knausgaard seduced me with this first sentence: “For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can.” How did he know that I would be reading this six months after my husband’s heart attack? This personalized opening kept me turning pages until the end. And now he’s asking for more of my attention. Book II’s 592 pages are on the table by my reading chair. So far I haven’t opened it. Knausgaard sits there, mute.
Other authors clamor for my attention.
Susan Moon is practically demanding that I finish her book, Alive Until You’re Dead. Until Knausgaard came home with me, I was so engrossed in Moon’s writing that I accidentally underlined important sentences in the Library copy. I confessed to the library officials, who appreciated my honesty and replaced it with a new copy without a fine. Now my conversation with Moon can continue in our marred copy, which is mingling on the shelf with other authors who write about aging. I may have hurt Moon’s feelings by abandoning her temporarily for Knausgaard. Hopefully she’ll forgive me.
In the meantime, Rachel Cusk is sitting next to Knausgaard arguing for her book, Aftermath. Her book was on reserve at the library for months and finally became available this week. She tells Knausgaard, Nicky only has me for three weeks. When I peek inside the book, her first paragraph compares a life that recently broke apart to dismantling a jigsaw puzzle. How did she know I live in a house that nearly always has a puzzle going?
And that’s not the only piece of my puzzle. Nancy Chodorow, who was born the year before I was, reminds me that she is my elder and advises me to look into her book, The Power of Feelings. “Remember how your analyst kept hounding you to express your feelings? I can tell you more about that.”
One of my own readers, William B. Parsons, gently reminds me that he sent a copy of his latest book, Freud and Religion, inscribed: “In honor of the author of “Fear, Folly & Freud” and our mutual love of psychoanalysis.” Bill notices that I stopped reading his book on page 105 and cautions me not to forsake our mutual love.
While Knausgaard, Moon, Cusk, Chodorow, and Parsons are engaged in this lively discussion, I receive an email from the library informing me that an inter-library loan I’ve been yearning to get my hands on has finally arrived. I pay the $3.00 and bring Claudia Luiz home. We spend the afternoon together learning about The Making of a Psychoanalyst. It’s lovely.
Who are you spending time with these days?
