Or Karl Ove Knausgård as he likes to be called…

My first reaction to My Struggle, or Mein Kampf as it were, was reactionary. It was generally positive but in retrospect I see that it was kneejerk. It fascinated me so, that someone could write so prolifically and in such detail about… and this drives my opinion now… nothing. It was more a diary than a memoir firstly and there wasn’t a single remarkable event or even a thought. It wasn’t all that much different than Brett Kavanaugh’s calendar.

Party with Skip, Biff, Chubby and Lou.

Drove to mall and bought Orange Julius.

There is no secondly, actually. It was a thousand pages with not a single interesting event. The most interesting thing about the book is that it exists.

I know now that what kept me enrapt was that I had faith that at some point something really meaningful or just exciting would be revealed. That never happened. Still, I considered this week moving into Volume Two. Then I listened to an interview with him on Youtube and discovered that he’s even more boring in person than he is in print. He has nothing to say and no insights to offer.

“We had a party at my house and my father wore a white shirt with an open collar. I drank a bottle of beer. The adults talked a lot.”

Really.

And he’s worse in person. The most interesting thing about him is that he has that aging rock star look that lends itself to the belief that he’s got some stories to tell. And he does. He really does.

They’re just boring.

And he says he didn’t realize people would be upset about the title of the books, and that means he’s either stupid or he simply doesn’t give a fuck.