I found my way back to Knausgaard. Summer is the fourth volume of his Seasons quartet. Perhaps I should have begun with the first but as it is summer it seemed churlish not to begin with this aesthetically pleasing edition with its Anselm Kiefer watercolours.
At first I dipped as into a stream of solipsistic consciousness, unsure whether I wanted to read Knausgaard, but I was drawn into this highly self-conscious work. It is labelled as memoir/essays and I assume it exists in the same world as his autobiographical novels. In his terrific essay on Handke, Knausgaard reveals, I think, a little of his own project: “[Handke’s novels] seek out the gaps, the perimeters, there where something can be seen for the first time, and they insist on the details, on the small incidents, the seemingly insignificant, precisely because they change everything about that which is already seen, and reveal a world that is forever in the making.” In Summer, it is the digressions into the fear of authority, the nature of art, the existence of God, which erupt with apparent spontaneity, triggered by associative memories, that propel the force and charm of his narrative.
The more that Knausgaard interferes with what is apparently his primary narrative, a series of short essays about the small events of family life, the more this work suggests that the primary arc of significance comprises the digressions and their interactive effects. Woven into his narrative is another story that Knausgaard engages to write obliquely on the topic of shame. These are above all digressions on topics dear to Knausgaard.
“The shame I feel so strongly occurs only on the surface of the soul, it is a bit like the flame over charcoal, it is fuelled by lighter fluid and dances above the blackness, lightly and almost non-comittally, whereas the glow within the charcoal is something quite other and deeper.”
There is something more to Summer than A Death in the Family, but it might be I need to re-read that novel with more care. There seems to be less linguistic excess in Summer, less what felt like an absence of re-writing and editing in A Death in the Family. When I finished A Death in the Family I dismissed Knausgaard’s project as a provocative and cynical gesture, silly posturing. Summer restores my interest in what Knausgaard appears to be doing, raising questions about what we know and how we can know what we know. It brings to mind a line of Akhmatova writing of Lot’s wife: “A single glance: a sudden art of pain / stitching her eyes before she made a sound.” A sudden art of pain is the cumulative effect of Knausgaard’s rhetorical movements.