Too much information!

I am reading the fourth volume of the six-volume My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. On the cover of the book there is a comment by New York Times Book Review. It reads: Why would you read a six volume, 3,600-page Norwegian novel about a man writing a six-volume, 3,600 page Norwegian novel? The short answer is that it is breathtakingly good and so you cannot stop yourself, and would not want to.

                                                            

As I am reading the fourth volume already I must have read close to 2,000 pages and I am asking myself the same question. I accept the short answer by New York Times but I am asking myself the next question what it that I like is? The answer is not that simple. I think I like the openness of Karl Ove telling his story. Warts and all. And there are many warts in his stories. Some belong to people in his life but most of them are he owns. Sometimes I want to scream – too much information!! I do not need to know all the details of his bodily reactions to the previous night over drinking. Maybe some of them I can cope with, but not all for God’s sake! But no, we really get it all, with colour, consistence and more. Is this what I particularly like about the book? In a way, yes, strangely enough. Maybe not necessarily post overdrinking bathroom details but the concept of telling it as it was, no make up applied. That makes the book really authentic and I feel like I really know young Karl Ove. He is eighteen in the fourth volume and for the next hundreds of pages will be trying to loose his virginity. Mind boggles. I will know the boy well by the end of the volume. Will I like him? Will I get the next book? I am not sure yet. But most likely, I will. They say that I will not be able to stop myself. Hmm… My knowledge of the men’s world will increase considerably.

I like the sincerity of the book, I also can relate to Karl Ove’s problems, interests and fascinations. And I come from a different world to his. I would say that my interests are very different to his preoccupations. This is one of the values of the book, it covers universal issues but it reads like a rather simple story. Deceivingly simple.

During one of management courses, I have attended in my life, my colleagues assessed me as sincere. Not a bad value or a characteristic but it bothered me somehow and I still, many years after, I ponder on that. While I consider sincerity close to honesty and I highly value both, I sometimes feel concerned that I disclose more than healthy and that it may turn against me. I know that at times it does. Knausgaard is painfully sincere and searching for his truths. Sometimes I shouted in my thoughts – too much information! Stop it! He has some court cases on the go as a result of writing as it was or as he remembered it was. He became also very famous, very fast. His sincerity of total disclosure is a great component to it. He is at times accused of too strong self-focus bordering on narcissism. I forgive him that.

After some research I found out that the book number 6 is not translated yet and that I will have to wait for it a while. The book contains Knausgaard thought on Breivik. This should be very interesting.

On reflection, I think I will keep reading My Struggle until it finishes, if it ever does. In the meantime I will read and write about two first books by Donna Tartt. I already have bought them.

Disciplinarian fathers

I just finished  the first book of Knausgaard life story – The Struggle. It was about his father. The book  is  brilliantly and painfully honestly written.  At least that is how the first book – Death in the Family - came across to me. Reading it I could find my own, old feelings about my father. About his heavy steps on the staircase, that immediately changed my mood from playful and light-hearted to watchful, scared and almost resentful. My father was a good hard working man who was a great role model for me and I am still thankful for some of my characteristics that I gained by osmosis observing him and his approach to life. So, why such a negative reaction when he  appeared in my peaceful and happy place. He loved me but I did not see it and did not understand that his love was not about kisses, hugs, smiles, softness or encouragement. He was responsible for the family and he took it very seriously. It seemed that it he never felt that he had done enough for us to relax and rest on his laurels.  He was straight to the point, a no nonsense person. A self made man, a bit rough at the edges but deep down sensitive. As a child I did not see the sensitive, loving side of his, I only saw that when he patted me on the shoulder I almost sat down on the floor, his caressing touch was so heavy. It almost hurt. I was afraid of him and tuned in to the sounds of home and its surrounding to recognise when he will be coming and I will have to change and present a protective and at the same time good girl demeanour.

When I think back to the times, I wish I could have a second round of my childhood. I would see my father in a different light and I would spend more time with him. Even if I remember him as a disciplinarian father, he never punished me. But I was still afraid of him and avoided his company. Sad and silly, really. So many missed opportunities for both of us.

Reading The Death in the Family I understood feelings of young Karl Ove. They were similar to my old feelings. The whole book is about the father and different chapters of his life. Many complexities and contradictions of the person are masterfully described. Still reading some reviews of the book there is typically a reference to a cruel and distant father. I read more into the father character. I saw a sensitive person as well as disciplinarian and indifferent father. There were times when he wanted to get close to his young son, share experiences with him. It did not work out. My father also wanted to spend time with me and we did have good times together. Like when he first taught me to ride a bicycle and some years later to ride his Russian huge and heavy motorbike IŻ. 

The motorbike looked something like this one. I get all mushy looking at it now and reminiscing my past a bike rider.

My father was  a very ingenious and dedicated teacher setting up motorbike on bricks in such a way that I could learn changing gears and operate most of the buttons with wheels spinning harmlessly in the air. In  the second stage of my “driving course”,  the motorbike was taken off the bricks. Father found a save place for me to practice and he let me loose. But he also held the motor bike to stop it with his force if I did something really silly.  It must have been physically demanding to run behind the motorbike holding it  in with me making all typical mistakes of uncontrollably speeding up or braking. Why didn’t I see that it was love he was giving me? On the strength of this education I got my driving licence at the age of 16 which was very unusual at the time in Poland. Thank you father.

My musing about disciplinarian fathers brought me to the point  that it is sometimes difficult to see beyond their harshness. Not a revelation? To me it is in a way.

There is going to be a sequel to this post. Or two. I want to explore my thought and feeling more.

A sad, sad post

After my previous frivolous post there is time for serious reflections. I have been recently reading serious books, thinking serious thoughts, saying internally good bye to somebody departed who had been important in my life. Consequently, my reflections and thoughts have been a bit morose. Then, I saw a post  with a cheerful title Are Europeans sadder? I decided that this is something very appropriate for my current mood.  With each year passing, I feel more and more European, the post content caught my attention and interest. What do I think about it? What is my experience? Maybe Europeans are sadder, but in relation to whom? My observations tell me that the south Europeans are a cheerful lot but Scandinavians and Germans not so much. Poles are somewhere in-between, perhaps. I would place French and Spanish, on my personal happiness scale between Poland and Southern Europe. It makes me think that maybe weather and sunshine have some influence here. In addition to reasons given in the mentioned post, I wonder what influence European literature has on emotional predispositions of people. I have just finished biography of Herman Hesse and I would not call it a happy story. Deep and meaningful but not happy. Hesse was a strange, complicated man and a brilliant writer who influenced thinking of many generations of Germans in particular. Sure, his books are read in all countries of the world but I would risk an assumption that Europeans are in majority of his followers. His books do not cheer the readers up.

When I was at school, I had a great teacher of literature. At some stage of my education the time has come to read and study one of famous Polish writers of an unpronounceable name, Żeromski. He was called a conscience of Polish literature and his books were a mandatory reading at high schools. They cover serious, difficult subjects and I can not remember any funny parts in his novels. My teacher used to say : Be careful reading Żeromski. One novel – will not do you any damage, but if you read two in a row depression will follow, three books in a row may lead to a suicide. Perhaps the jurors of Nobel price committee in 1924 were aware of the danger and selected another Polish writer who was also on a short list this year – Reymont.

Żeromski - Looking at the man one can see that he wrote about serious matters

                                                

One of my Polish friends who is a literature teacher recently suggested that I read a new international bestseller – The Struggle by Karl Ove Knaussgaard. The first one of the six parts of The Struggle is called – A Death in the Family. This is the book that I just finished. Great book, full of meaningful reflections. The story is also very good and based on the life of the author. Being under influence of the dark wisdom of the book I feel sad. I am waiting for the next two parts to arrive by post. Was is a wise move to order more? Perhaps not, my literature teacher would most likely object and worry about my well-being.

The picture on the cover is of the author

Since I decided to unburden myself by damping all my current sadness in this post, I have to mention my recent visit to the local nursing home. Nursing homes are generally sad places, but I decided to volunteer my time to spend it with people who live there. I know that they have caring families but maybe sometimes the families are too busy to visit and I could make a positive difference, however small.

I must confess I expected a warm welcome but instead I was coldly and briefly informed that my enthusiasm to help can not be used in this establishment and that I should turn to the local council. When I wanted to find out if the council could potentially direct me to the nursing home I was told that they are very busy, too busy to chat with me and that they have paid qualified staff and families to support the patients. Wow, that made me sad! Sad for failing to help, but most of all sad for the patients who may be deprived of company they might want to have.

I did go to the local council to offer my help and this was a very happy story with a promising outcome and as such does not belong to my sad, very sad post.