“And writing was such a fragile thing. It wasn’t hard to write well, but it was hard to make writing that was alive, writing that could prise open the world and draw it together in one and the same movement. When it didn’t work, which it never really did, not really, I would sit there like a conceited idiot and wonder who I thought I was, supposing I could write for others. Did I know any better than anyone else? Did I possess some secret no one else possessed? Were my experiences particularly valuable? My thoughts about the world especially valid?”

— Karl Ove Knausgaard, The End (trans. by Martin Aitken and Don Bartlett)

It is characteristic that Knausgaard would think and express this sentiment in his book. (At a much lower level, it is a thought constantly on mind as I contribute in any way to blogging and other social media.)

3 thoughts on “Conceited Idiot

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