Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘Are you nervous?’ she said.

‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘Bit maybe. Did you like it?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see!’ she said.

Bjørg, who was sitting next to her, glanced at us and smiled.

Through the door at the other end came Petra — with neither an umbrella nor rain gear — her black leather jacket glistening and her wet hair hanging over her forehead. Right behind her came Trude, wearing green waterproof trousers and jacket, the hood laced up tightly around her neck, on her feet high wellies, on her back a leather rucksack. I stood up, went to the kitchenette and poured myself another cup of coffee.

‘Anyone else want any?’ I said.

Petra shook her head, no one else looked in my direction. Trude was standing under the slanting window and pulling off her trousers, and even though she had jeans on underneath, just the movements, wriggling and squirming, gave me a hard-on. I put my hand in my pocket as I walked back to my place as nonchalantly as possible.

‘Is everyone here?’ Hovland said from his chair under the board. Fosse was sitting beside him with his arms crossed and his eyes downcast, as on the first two days.

‘We’re going to spend the first part of today on Karl Ove’s texts. Then we’ll go through Nina’s after the break. If you’re ready, Karl Ove, you can start reading yours.’

I read, the others followed attentively in their copies. When I had finished, the commentary round began. I jotted down key words. Else Karin thought the language fresh and alive, but the plot somewhat predictable, Kjetil said it was credible but slightly tedious, Knut thought it was reminiscent of Saaby Christensen, not that there was anything wrong with that per se, as he put it. Petra considered the names stupid. Come on, she said, Gabriel and Gordon and Billy. That’s intended to be cool, but it’s just childish and silly. Bjørg thought it was interesting, but she would like to know more about the relationship between the two boys. Trude said the writing had oomph, but there were many clichés and stereotypes, in fact, as far as she was concerned there were so many it bordered on being unreadable. Nina liked the radical use of ‘a’ endings in the Norwegian and the descriptions of nature.

Finally, Hovland gave his opinion. He said this was realistic prose, it was recognisable and good, in some places he had been reminded of Saaby Christensen as well, and of course there were some linguistic shortcomings here and there, but the writing had great power, and it was a story, which was an artistic achievement in itself.

He looked at me and asked if I wanted to add anything or if I had any questions. I said I was happy with the way we had gone through the text and I had got a lot out of it, but I was wondering what the clichés and stereotypes were, could Trude give me some examples?

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, and picked up her text. ‘ “Land where no white man has set foot” for example.’

‘But that’s supposed to be a cliché,’ I said. ‘That’s the whole point. That’s how they see the world.’

‘But even that’s a cliché, you know. And then you’ve got “the sun peeped through the foliage” and “the ominous black clouds that betokened thunder” — betokened, right? Then you have “the Colt nestling warmly in his hand” — nestling warmly. I ask you. And it’s like that throughout.’

‘It’s also quite affected and pseudo,’ Petra said. ‘When “Gordon”,’ she said, making finger quotes and smiling, ‘says “ gir deg five seconds ”, that’s so stupid because we understand the writer wants us to understand the characters have seen it on TV and, like, use English.’

‘Now I think you’re being unfair,’ Else Karin said. ‘This is not poetry we’re talking about. We can’t make such high demands of single sentences; it’s the totality that counts. And as Ragnar said, this is a story, and making it work is an art.’

‘Just keep at it,’ Bjørg said. ‘I think it’s interesting! And I’m sure there will be a lot of changes along the way.’

‘I agree,’ Petra said. ‘Just change the stupid names and I’m happy.’

After this discussion I was angry and ashamed, but also confused because although I assumed the positive words had been said to reassure me the fact still remained that I had been accepted on the course, which, for example, Kjetil had not, so there must have been something good in what I had written. Clichés though were the problem, and according to Trude my texts consisted of nothing else. Or was it just that she was so snobbish she thought she was someone, a poet, in some way better than everyone else? Else Karin had said that I wasn’t writing poetry, and Hovland had also emphasised that this was realistic prose.

This was how my mind was working as the others unpacked their lunches and Else Karin put on a new pot of coffee. But I realised I couldn’t turn introspective now, that would give the impression it had upset me, that they had scored a hit, which would be the same as admitting that what I wrote wasn’t as good as what they wrote.

‘That book you were reading, could I have a look at it?’ I said to Kjetil.

‘Of course,’ he said, and passed it to me. I skimmed through it.

‘Where’s he from?’

‘Argentina, I think. But he lived in Paris for a very long time.’

‘Is it magic realism?’ I said.

‘Yes, you might call it that.’

‘I really like Márquez,’ I said. ‘Have you read him?’

Kjetil smiled.

‘Yes, but he’s not quite my style. It’s a bit too high-flown for me.’

‘Mhm,’ I said, handing the book back and writing Julio Cortázar in my notebook.

After lessons I went to Høyden to pick up my student loan. I joined the queue at the Natural History Museum, it wasn’t very long, the day was almost over, I showed my ID, signed and was given an envelope with my name on, I shoved it into my plastic bag and set off towards the Student Centre, where among many other things there was a little bank. The grey concrete building on a gentle slope shimmered in the rain. Through the doors, one at the front and two at the sides, students came and went, individuals hurrying, groups walking slowly, some familiar with this world, others new like me — they weren’t difficult to spot, at least if my theory was correct: that those who seemed flustered and confused, with all their senses open, could not have been there more than a few days.

I went in the door, up the long stairs and entered the large open concourse full of columns and staircases, people at stands everywhere, there was Student Radio, Student Newspaper, Student Sports Association, Student Kayak Club, Student Christian Association, but I had been here before and headed at a determined pace towards the bank at the end, where once again I joined a queue, and after a few minutes I had transferred the money into my account and taken out three thousand kroner, which I stuffed into my trouser pocket before going down to Studia, the student bookshop, where I wandered among the shelves for the next half-hour, at first disorientated and irresolute, there were so many subjects that were interesting and I thought I might need when I was writing, such as psychology, philosophy, sociology or art history, but I concentrated on literature, that was the most important, I wanted something about how to read poetry, and perhaps a book about modernism, as well as some collections of poetry and novels. First I found a novel by Fosse called Blood. The Stone is, the cover was black with a picture of a semi-illuminated face, I turned the book over, on the back it said ‘Jon Fosse, 27 years old, cand. Philol. and lecturer at the Writing Academy in Hordaland, has this year published his fourth book’, and I was proud because I studied at the Writing Academy, it was almost as though this was about me. I had to have that one. In addition, there were several books by James Joyce, I chose the one with the most appealing title, Stephen Hero, and then I found one on textual analysis, it was Swedish and called From Text to Plot, I had a flick through, the chapters were entitled ‘What is a Text?’, ‘Explain or Understand?’, ‘The Text’, ‘The Plot’, ‘The Story’, and might have been a bit basic, I thought, yet there were terms in it I didn’t understand, such as ‘Towards Critical Hermeneutics’ or ‘Historical Time and Phenomenological Time’s Aporia’, but that just whetted my appetite, I wanted to learn, and I took the book with me. I found a collection of poems by Charles Olson, I knew nothing about him, but as I leafed through it I saw the same kind of poetry as Trude had written, and I took that as well. It was called Archeologist of the Morning. I added two books by Isaac Asimov to the pile, I had to have something light to read as well. Beside them was a novel, G, by someone called John Berger, on the flap inside it said it was an intellectual novel, and I took that too. I couldn’t find any Cortázar, but I did find a paperback entitled The Thief’s Journal by Jean Genet, which I couldn’t resist either, and finally I decided I should have some philosophy as well and was lucky enough to lay my hand immediately on a book about philosophy and art: Introduction to Aesthetics, Hegel.