Karl Knausgaard - A Time for Everything

But for the moment all is calm. An electric impulse fires down a nerve fiber, is deflected, and sets off a chemical process as it touches a cell, which interacts with its neighboring cells, and an image of a spruce forest is brought to life. Heavy branches, green pine needles, black trunks, wet earth. From there a link is made to the smell of pine branches and soil and rotting leaves. A hand pushes a branch aside, back there is a mountain, bare and glistening gray in the dull rainy light. It’s completely quiet. Suddenly there’s the feeling that others are present. The head is raised, the eyes lifted: up in the tree sits a crow. It makes no move to fly away, just perches there with its claws around the branch and its gaze on the forest. The black eyes are shiny and still as two stones. Then, far up the mountainside, the foot is lifted toward a fissure, gets a hold, the weight is transferred, the other foot follows, but just then the hand loses its grip and a great fear spreads, but without being followed by any pain, just a new picture, this time of being inside a lifeless body at the bottom of a kind of shaft, and being lifted up by two men, and feeling one’s neck hanging and lolling, and knowing that one’s eyes are dead and that all one’s organs are dead, but still being there, inside the dead body, mad with fear, and then screaming.

I started awake and stared out into the room in front of me. It felt as if I’d occupied an empty body, for a scream died out just as I opened my eyes, and I realized that it had done all this without me: sat up in bed, clenched its fists, tilted its head back, opened its mouth, and screamed. All the time its eyes had been closed, turned inward on the brain’s terrible imaginings, which disappeared the moment I awoke. But it remained under their influence for a few seconds more, gasping for breath, beating its heart, working on the theory that something terrible had happened, without realizing that it lay alone in a peaceful bedroom on an island far out to sea.

I sat there for a long time gazing ahead of me as the impressions from the nightmare were slowly forced back by what I saw. The white curtains that trembled in the breeze from the window, the grayish linoleum floor, all the papers that covered it, the suitcase that gaped open by the wall, the shadow of my winter coat in the open cupboard, the embroidery of Jesus and the souvenir plate from the coastal steamer on the wall above the desk, the computer, the pile of books next to it, and on the floor beneath. The names on their spines were only just legible in the faint morning light, and not without pleasure I let my gaze wander over them. Blake, Örn, Thorvaldsen, Poe, Andersen, Rudbeck, Zola, Stevenson, Berwald. Then I bent down and picked up the towel from the floor, wiped the sweat from my chest and forehead, and laid down again in the bed. It was only then I noticed the wind outside. It must have risen while I slept. And then the acceptance of sounds that arise during sleep must have been continued into wakefulness, I thought. How else could I have missed hearing the racket that was going on out there? The cellar door was shifting on its hinges, the broken gutter scraped and thumped against the wall, the windowpane rattled, the vent in the bathroom opened and closed in rapid trills, which occasionally, especially in variable gusts, resembled the sound of chattering teeth. Then suddenly everything might go quiet, and for a few seconds it was possible to hear the low, continuous rush that was always there, like a generator that goes on humming even when the workman’s drill is switched off, until new squalls arose and the entire apparatus was set in motion again.

I remembered how frightened I would get as a child when I awoke to storms like these. In my thoroughly animated world, where I sensed the special personality and presence of everything, the wind had been by far the most frightening character. It hunted furiously through the landscape, shook every tree, lifted every bush, smashed wave after wave against the land. It even made attempts on the house. Wide awake I’d lie in the dark and hear the wind press against the walls searching for openings, the howl that arose when it forced its way down a drainpipe, the creaking that crossed the floorboards in the attic, the sudden banging of a door in the basement. The strange thing was that I was frightened even though I knew it was only the wind. Reason made no impression on fear, it was so much stronger and had so many allies that all it needed was a little waft of anxiety and it would kick over the traces of the will and come chasing through me, conquering part after part until it was master of me and I lay paralyzed in bed and waited for them to stoop over me, those dead men who’d come rushing up from the forest and into the garden, where I could hear their breathing, rising and falling, only a thin wall away.

I had at least gained something from the intervening years, I thought, and smiled. Like one of those endangered species that begins to pop up in habitats that previously have been alien to them, my fear, driven gradually from bastion to bastion, had finally sought refuge in my dreams. It was the only place left where it could still dominate me. There was no longer anything frightening about storms or dead people, on the contrary, there was something soothing about the sounds outside, their repetitions were soporific, and when I pulled the duvet half over my head and closed my eyes, I tried to make my thoughts follow them in the hope that they would lead me into sleep again, glide along the breakwater and in toward the landing, bump against the wall of the boathouse, be forced out into the bay, there to be caught up by the fluttering passing winds that funneled up the corridor between the low mountain ridges leading to the lighthouse, puffing and snorting like a team of horses, from where they could stream across the open sea once again and not meet an obstacle until they struck the mainland a few miles farther in and, exhausted by the crossing, only just manage to blow through the trees on the ridge by the fjord, there finally to reach the quaking zone where the outer imperceptibly merged with the inner and all connection between me and my surroundings ceased.

When I awoke again, it was completely still outside. Rested, I sat up in bed and looked at my cell phone on the bedside table to see what the time was. Half past eleven. I put it back, stretched my arms over my head, and yawned. Then I got up and went to the window, opened the curtains, released the catch, and opened it. Slowly the cool air flowed into the room. I felt how its touch made my skin tighten, and I stroked the stiff hairs of my forearm as I peered out.

The sea lay heavy and calm between the small islands. Near the shore the surface was smooth as silver, here and there seemingly illuminated by the reflection of the sandy bottom, farther out dimmed by mist that stood like a wall around the island. In places the dark, smooth boards of the landing reflected the red color of the boathouses that leaned over them, dimly, like a sensation or a vague memory. A rope hung inert from a cleat on the top of the wall, some nets lay in a jumbled heap in front of the rough door, a rusty car battery and a can of formic acid stood next to it.

There wasn’t a movement to be seen anywhere. Even the boats along the quay were motionless. Absence of life gave the scene a strange model-like atmosphere, as if it had been assembled by a group of curators, I thought, and at any moment the public might come flooding in through a carefully camouflaged door somewhere in the horizon, full of admiration for all the true-to-life detail to which their young guide was constantly drawing their attention. The half-erased logos on the empty fish crates stacked against the wall of the boathouses; the rainwater in the two tubs next to them, yellowish against the white of the plastic; the slack in the shaggy mooring ropes coiling on the water’s surface; the empty crab shells glimmering on the rock slab farther off, bleached by weeks of rain. All that was missing was a papier-mâché fisherman, I thought, who, knife in hand, could be stooping over the day’s catch. And maybe a few papier-mâché gulls suspended on clear thread from the ceiling.