Karl Ove Knausgaard - My Struggle: Book Four

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Contents

Slowly my two suitcases glided around on the carousel in the arrivals hall. They were old, from the end of the 1960s, I had found them among Moms things in the barn when we were about to move, the day before the removal van came, and I immediately commandeered them, they suited me and my style, the not-quite-contemporary, the not-quite-streamlined, which was what I favored.

I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray stand by the wall, lifted the cases off the carousel, and carried them outside.

It was five minutes to seven.

I lit another cigarette. There was no hurry, there was nothing I had to do, no one I had to meet.

The sky was overcast, but the air was still sharp and clear. There was something alpine about the landscape even though the airport I was standing outside was only a few meters above sea level. The few trees I could see were stunted and misshapen. The mountain peaks on the horizon were white with snow.

Just in front of me an airport bus was quickly filling up with people.

Should I catch it?

The money Dad had so reluctantly lent me for the journey would tide me over until I got my first paycheck in a month. On the other hand, I didnt know where the youth hostel was, and wandering blindly around an unfamiliar town with two suitcases and a backpack would not be a good start to my new life.

No, better take a taxi.

* * *

Apart from a short walk to a nearby snack bar stand, where I consumed two sausages with mashed potatoes in a cardboard tray, I stayed in the youth hostel room all evening, lying with the duvet over my back and listening to music on my Walkman while writing letters to Hilde, Eirik, and Lars. I started one to Line as well, the girl I had spent all summer with, but set it aside after one page, undressed, and switched off the light, for all the difference that made, it was a light summer night, the orange curtain glowed in the room like an eye.

Usually I would fall asleep at once wherever I was, but that night I lay awake. In just four days I would be starting my first job. In just four days I would be entering a classroom in a small village on the coast of Northern Norway, a place I had never been and knew nothing about, I hadnt even seen any pictures.

Me!

An eighteen-year-old Kristiansander, who had just finished gymnas , who had just moved away from home, with no experience of working other than a few evenings and weekends at a parquet flooring factory, a bit of journalism on a local paper, and a month at a psychiatric hospital this summer, I was about to become a teacher at Hfjord School.

No, I couldnt sleep.

What would the pupils think of me?

When I went into the classroom for the first lesson and they were sitting there in their chairs in front of me, what would I say to them?

And the other teachers, what on earth would they make of me?

A door was opened in the corridor, releasing the sound of music and voices. Someone walked along quietly singing. There was a shout: Hey, shut the door. Afterward all the noise was enclosed again. I rolled over onto my other side. The strangeness of lying in bed under a light sky must have played a part in my not being able to fall asleep. And once the thought was established that it was difficult to sleep, it became impossible.

I got up, pulled on my clothes, sat in the chair by the window, and began to read. Dead Heat by Erling Gjelsvik.

All the books I liked were basically about the same topic. White Niggers by Ingvar Ambjrnsen, Beatles and Lead by Lars Saabye Christensen, Jack by Alf Lundell, On the Road by Jack Kerouac, Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby, Jr., Novel with Cocaine by M. Ageyev, Colossus by Finn Alns, Lasso Round the Moon by Agnar Mykle, The History of Bestiality trilogy by Jens Bjrneboe, Gentlemen by Klas stergren, Icarus by Axel Jensen, The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger, Humlehjertene by Ola Bauer, and Post Office by Charles Bukowski. Books about young men who struggled to fit in to society, who wanted more from life than routines, more from life than a family, basically, young men who hated middle-class values and sought freedom. They traveled, they got drunk, they read, and they dreamed about their lifes great passion or writing the great novel.

Everything they wanted I wanted too.

The great longing, which was ever present in my breast, was dispelled when I read these books, only to return with renewed vigor the moment I put them down. It had been like that all the way through my latter years at school. I hated all authority, was an opponent of the whole limited society I had grown up in, with its bourgeois values and materialistic view of humanity. I despised what I had learned at gymnas, even about literature; all I needed to know, all true knowledge, the only really essential knowledge, was to be found in the books I read and the music I listened to. I wasnt interested in money or status symbols; I knew that the essential value in life lay elsewhere. I didnt want to study, had no wish to receive an education at a conventional institution like a university, I wanted to travel down through Europe, sleep on beaches, in cheap hotels, or with friends I made on the way. Take odd jobs to survive, wash dishes at hotels, load or unload boats, pick oranges That spring I had bought a book containing lists of every conceivable, and inconceivable, kind of job you could get in various European countries. But all of this was to culminate in a novel. I would spend some time writing in a Spanish village, go to Pamplona and run the bulls, continue on down to Greece and write on one of the islands, and then, after a year or two, return to Norway with a novel in my backpack.

That was the plan. That was why I didnt do my military service when gymnas was over, like so many of my friends had done, nor did I enroll at university, as the rest had done, instead I went to the employment office in Kristiansand and asked for a list of all the teaching opportunities in Northern Norway.

Hear youre going to be a teacher , Karl Ove, people I saw at the end of the summer said.

No, I answered. Im going to be a writer. But I have to have something to live off in the meantime. Ill work up there for a year, put some money aside, and then travel down through Europe.

This was no longer an idea in my head but the reality I was in: tomorrow I would go to the harbor in Troms, catch the express boat to Finnsnes and then the bus south to the tiny village of Hfjord, where the school caretaker would be waiting to welcome me.

No, I couldnt sleep.

I took the half bottle of whiskey from my suitcase, got a glass from the bathroom, poured, drew the curtain aside, and took a first shivering sip as I gazed at the strangely light housing estate outside.

* * *

When I woke around ten the following morning my nerves were gone. I packed my things, called for a taxi from the pay phone in the reception, stood outside with my suitcases at my feet, and smoked as I waited. This was the first time in my life I had traveled anywhere without having to return. There was no home to return to. Mom had sold our house and moved to Frde. Dad lived with his new wife farther north, in Northern Norway. Yngve lived in Bergen. And, as for me, I was on my way to a first flat of my own. There I would have my own job and earn my own money. For the very first time I had control of all the elements in my life.