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The second volume level in his autobiographical quartet predicated on the seasons, Winter is an achingly beautiful assortment of daily meditations and characters addressed right to Knaugsaard's unborn girl 2 Dec - It really is odd that you are present, but that you don't know anything about what the world looks like. It's strange that there is a first time to see the sky, a first time to see the sun, a first time to feel the air against one's pores and skin. It's strange that there is a first time to see a face, a tree, a light fixture, pajamas, a footwear. In my life it hardly ever happens nowadays. But soon it'll. In only a few months, I'll see you for the first time. In Winter, we rejoin the fantastic Karl Ove Knausgaard as he waits for the labor and birth of his girl. In preparation on her behalf arrival, he needs stock of the world, seeing it as if for the first time. In his inimitably sensitive style, he writes about the moon, drinking water, messiness, owls, birthdays - to mention just a couple of his content. These oh-so-familiar objects and ideas he fills with new so this means, taking nothing for awarded or as given. New life is coming, but the earth is also in hibernation, looking forward to the warmer weather to return, and so a contradictory melancholy inflects his gaze. Startling, compassionate, and exquisitely beautiful, Knausgaard's writing is similar to nothing else. Somehow, he shows the entire world as it really is, simultaneously mundane and sublime.
