Karl Ove Knausgaard

I'm not sure which way the reviews went, ultimately, when it comes to Karl Ove Knausgaard's most recent work, Autumn, but then, part of me doesn't care: I found Knausgaard's essays a strange and enticing mixture. Here is a celebration of the quotidian, a paean to the commonplace; here are vignettes wrapped in a protective coating; here is a shield, a voice for what we know to exist, but to which we do not always assign meaning. 

I've written before on the blog about works that I consider too precious: among these are novels by Updike, for instance. But there's a difference, I think, between being precious and poignant, and Knausgaard's essays are the latter: meaningful, restrained, emotive. In the mundane, he locates significance; in the ordinary, he identify substance. I found these reflections -- couched, in part, as an extended dialogue with Knausgaard's unborn daughter -- to be refreshing in their originality, tender in their resolve. 

Some critics have found the observations here to be cliched or sentimental; this, I think, is unfair, and is to expect of short essays something reserved for the novel. Knausgaard's goal in Autumn is not to disrupt our sense of daily routine; it is instead to celebrate that routine, and to remind us of its majesty. I found the collection supremely refreshing -- and given the weight of the world, a welcome and timely respite.