Karl Knausgaard: A Time for Everything

He pokes the stick into the other side of the anthill, keen to see how they will rise to the challenge. A new wave of ants pours out, while the first ones, certain that the danger is now past, have already set about repairing the damage he’s just caused. For a time he switches between them, enjoying seeing how quickly they switch from attack to defense, until without giving it a thought he thrusts the stick into the anthill as hard as he can and starts wiggling it around. The way the porous mixture of earth, pine needles, and twigs yields to his movements gives him a strangely satisfying feeling. And as parts of the anthill have already fallen in, he may as well continue, he thinks. At the same time he begins to despise what he’s doing. But in a strange way, it’s precisely this disgust that causes him to carry on. He knows just how strong his remorse will be when it’s over, and he wants to put that moment off for as long as possible, while his despair at what he’s doing creates a kind of fury within him. He begins to kick at the anthill, more and more wildly, not stopping until it has collapsed completely and the ground around him is dark with crawling ants. Then he throws down his stick and hurries away.

Even though dusk is dimming everything he sees, and great sails of darkness have lapped up some places entirely, he still doesn’t think about how late it is. He only wants to put as many yards and as much time between him and his crime as possible. What have I done , he thinks, what have I done, what have I done?

Only when the path he is following enters a meadow he can’t remember seeing before does the seriousness of the situation dawn on him. Soon it will be completely dark. And not only is he several miles from home, he is also well off the track that leads there.

For a long time he stands motionless on the forest brow looking across the meadow. The summit of the dark mountain behind it shows clearly against the inky blue sky, where the moon, which all day long has floated pale and ghostly above the horizon, has now appeared. He can see the shadows thrown on the mountains, the luminous plateaus.

It’s as if it’s moving toward him, he thinks. As if it’s gliding in from space like a ship from the sea.

Suddenly he shivers: there’s a rustling noise in the undergrowth nearby. The sound moves quickly away over the forest floor, but when it stops it isn’t replaced by silence, as he’s unconsciously been anticipating; quite the contrary, it opens the way to a host of other small sounds. A twig cracks here, a bush rustles there, somewhere in the distance an owl hoots. Then, with a sigh, the wind rises in the valley and the branches of the trees behind him begin to sway. He thinks that they’re like blind people grasping at something. Or the dead waking. He imagines how their shadows float unseen through the darkness about him. But if he stays still, he thinks, perhaps nothing will notice he’s there. No wild beasts, no evil spirits, no dead souls. . At the same time he’s itching to get away from the place. It won’t be long before the darkness is total, and if he’s not out of the forest by then, he’ll never find the way home.

He steels himself several times, thinking, Now I’ll run , but each time fear prevents him from putting the thought into action. Only when the owl hoots again and he hears that it has come closer are his thoughts matched by movement. He begins to run, and he runs as fast as he can, because owls are creatures of the devil, they have human eyes and birds’ bodies, and hearing one so soon after what he’s done must be an omen. Perhaps more than an omen, too. Perhaps they’re flying through the black treetops at this very moment searching for him. Perhaps they’ve just caught sight of him. Perhaps they’re stooping through the darkness above him right now. .

At that moment he realizes that he’s approaching the scene of his crime. He never wants to set eyes on that ruined anthill again, the mere thought of it fills him with desperation, and, as he doesn’t dare stop either, he runs into the forest in what he thinks is a gently curving detour that will bring him back onto the path again after a few hundred yards.

Like a frightened animal he crashes through the thick undergrowth. He aims for a tree about fifty yards in front of him; when he gets to it, he turns to the left and goes on another fifty yards before he begins to look out for the path. It should be about there, he thinks. Behind the tree trunk there . When he gets to it, he realizes that it’s behind the other tree trunk there. Provided he hasn’t crossed it without noticing?

No, not a chance!

But when it’s not there either, a little shadow of doubt enters his mind. He halts and leans against a tree to catch his breath while he stares into the darkness in front of him. Could he have run too far? Could it be in the forest higher up?

Then he understands. Of course, the path has turned! That’s why he hasn’t found it yet. It’s just a matter of keeping on, he thinks, glancing up for a moment at the sky, where darkness is just about to extinguish the last remnants of blue. Then he starts running again. This time he runs several hundred yards before doubt again gets the upper hand. There is no path here. He must have run the wrong way. The path is in the other direction, he thinks, and begins to run back in the direction he’s come from. Now he can barely see his hand in front of his face. He stumbles, gets to his feet, stumbles again. The thought that he’s got himself lost is so awful that he pushes it away by giving himself small encouragements each time it surfaces. He thinks constantly that he can recognize formations in the landscape about him. That toppled tree, this moss-grown rock face, that bit of bog. Even when these signs turn out not to fit, he refuses to make any concession to doubt, provided he keeps straight on, he thinks, he must eventually come to the path or the mountainside. He strays into a thicket of thorns, one cheek and the backs of both hands get scratched, but he doesn’t notice, he’s going to find the path, it’s somewhere close by, he knows it is. Behind that rise there, perhaps, he thinks, but it isn’t there, nor behind the next rise either. .

Finally he can’t run any farther, and the fear, which during the past half hour has drifted about within him on its own, shut in behind the hammering heart and furious panting, can once again connect with its source. Even the smallest sound strikes him like a stone and spreads its unchecked ripples of anxiety when it touches bottom. If only I hadn’t destroyed that anthill , he thinks.

In the pale moonlight the shadows around him have formed themselves into figures. He can see them clearly, they stand in huddles under the trees and watch him, and when they whisper to each other, it’s his name they’re whispering. Antinous , they whisper. Antinous .

Without taking his eyes off them he stops, clasps his hands, and begins to pray.

Our Father, who art in heaven .

A sigh passes through the figures in the forest around him.

This evening I destroyed an anthill. But I didn’t mean to. I don’t know why I did it. It was a sin and I repent. Please forgive me .

Are they retreating?

Help me get out of here. Please, help me get out of here .

Yes, they are moving away. At first he hardly dares believe it, and peers suspiciously into the gloom. But when they remain motionless, even when he takes a few steps into them, he realizes they’ve gone.

It’s just a matter of finding the path, he thinks. He can’t remember which way he came from anymore, and he starts walking in the direction where the trees seem to be least thick. He imagines God is directing his footsteps. Around him the forest becomes sparser and sparser until, after a few hundred yards, it opens into a clearing. And there is the ridge.