Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘That’s clear,’ he said.

‘You’ve either got it in you or you haven’t, I reckon. But it’s important to read too, of course. But that’s not the decisive factor.’

‘No, right,’ he said, taking a sip and glancing at the desk and the meagre selection of books on the shelf.

‘I’ve been thinking of writing about ugliness and trying to find the beauty in it, if you see what I mean. It’s not true that a thing of beauty is exclusively beautiful or ugly things are only ugly. It’s a lot more relative than that. Have you heard the latest by Propaganda?’

I looked at him. He shook his head. I went over and put the record on the stereo.

‘This bit is nice and dark and beautiful, and then all of a sudden we’re in an atonal ugly bit and it destroys the beauty, but it’s still good, do you understand?’

He nodded.

‘Listen. This is where the ugly bit starts.’

We both sat listening in silence. Then it finished and I went over and turned down the volume.

‘What you said about ugliness was really good. But it wasn’t quite how I’d imagined it,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that ugly.’

‘Perhaps not,’ I said. ‘But writing’s different anyway.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I wrote a poem last night. I’m going to read it out at the Academy tomorrow. Well, I’m not sure. It’s pretty radical. Do you want to see it?’

He nodded.

I went to the desk, picked up the poem and passed it to him.

He took it unsuspectingly, read with concentration, then I saw a pink flush spread across his cheeks and he suddenly turned round and burst into loud laughter.

‘You’re not going to read this, are you?’ he said.

‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘That was the idea.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Karl Ove. You’ll make a fool of yourself.’

‘It’s a provocation,’ I said.

He laughed again.

‘It certainly is,’ he said. ‘But don’t read it out. You said you weren’t sure. Don’t do it.’

‘I’ll see,’ I said, took the piece of paper he handed me and placed it on the desk. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’

‘I have to be getting back soon.’

‘By the way, Yngve’s having a party on Saturday. Do you fancy coming? He asked me to ask you.’

‘Yes, that would be fun.’

‘I was thinking of having pre-drinks here. Then we can take a taxi up there afterwards.’

‘Great!’

‘I’m sure you can bring along some friends if you like,’ I said.

He got up.

‘What time shall I come?’

‘I don’t know. Seven?’

‘See you then,’ he said, slipped his feet into his shoes, shrugged on his jacket and went out. I accompanied him to the steps. He turned to me.

‘Don’t read it out!’ he said. Then he disappeared round the corner into the darkness and rain.

Straight after I had gone to bed, at around two, I heard someone stop outside the front door, unlock it and then slam it shut. From the footsteps that went along the hall and down the stairs I guessed it was Morten. Some music was put on, louder than he had ever played it before, it lasted for maybe five minutes, then suddenly everything went quiet.

Waking up next day, I still hadn’t decided what to do and I took the poem with me so that I could make a last-minute decision. It wasn’t difficult. As I went into the seminar room and saw the others sitting in their places, relaxing with a cup of tea or coffee on the desk in front of them — a handbag, rucksack or plastic bag resting against the desk leg unless they were lying against the wall behind them with the wet umbrellas, which were sometimes left open on the floor in the photocopy room or between the table and the kitchenette, so that they could dry, ready for use again — as I saw all this and absorbed the friendly atmosphere this created, I realised I couldn’t read out the poem. It was full of hatred, it belonged in my room, where I was all alone, not here where I was with other people. Of course I could break down the partition between these two worlds, but there was something very strong holding them apart, which told me they shouldn’t be mixed.

Having to admit I hadn’t written a poem was humiliating. Everyone realised I hadn’t written one because of Fosse’s analysis the previous day, and that was tantamount to saying I had no spine, no stamina, was hypersensitive, a child, I lacked independence and strength of mind.

To rectify this impression I tried to appear attentive, interested and enthusiastic as the others’ poems were analysed. And it went quite well, I had already begun to grasp the technique of how to comment on poems, I knew what to look for, what was considered good or not good, and also succeeded in articulating this in a concise comprehensible manner, which not everyone could do. For people who were supposed to have language at their fingertips there was a conspicuous amount of fumbling and hesitation, around the table there were evasive looks and arguments that were retracted the moment they were presented, some almost unbearably flimsy and lame, and sometimes when I spoke up it was simply to bring clarity and order into the discussion.

On my way home I popped into Mekka and spent more than seven hundred kroner on food, I came out with six full carrier bags, and the prospect of schlepping them all the way home was so demoralising that I hailed a taxi, which pulled into the kerb and came to a halt, I put the bags into the boot and got into the back to be transported through the wet streets like royalty, elevated from the daily slog that was evident all around me, and even though it was expensive and I knew I was spending the money I had saved by shopping at Mekka it was worth it.

At home I put away my purchases, took a little trip down to the basement with the photography book, had lunch and tried to do some writing, not poems this time, I had finished with poems, I was a prose writer, and when I noticed that the sentences were coming as easily as before, all I had to do was write, I was relieved because somehow I had feared that Fosse’s analysis of the catastrophic poem would affect my confidence with regard to prose too, but such was not the case, everything flowed as before, and I wrote four pages without a pause before going to phone Ingvild.

This time I wasn’t so nervous, firstly she had asked me to ring, secondly I was only going to invite her to the party, and if she said no, it wasn’t the same as her saying no to me.

Under the little dome of transparent plastic I stood with the receiver pressed to my ear waiting for someone to pick up at the other end. Raindrops sailed across the plastic, gathered in large clusters beneath and let go at regular intervals and fell with little plops onto the tarmac. In the light from the street lamp above me the air was striped with rain.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, I’d like to talk to Ingvild …’

‘Hi, it’s me!’

‘Hi. How’s it going?’

‘Well, I think. Yes, it’s going pretty well. I’m sitting alone in my room reading.’

‘Sounds nice.’

‘Yes, and what about you?’

‘It’s going well. I was wondering whether you fancied going to a party on Saturday? Tomorrow, that is. My brother’s having a party at his place.’

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘I’m having a pre first. Then we’re taking a taxi. He lives in Solheimsviken. Would seven-ish be OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jon Olav’s coming anyway, so there’s someone you know.’

‘Is he everywhere, that cousin of yours?’

‘Yes, you could say that …’

She chuckled, and then there was a silence.

‘Shall we say that then?’ I said. ‘Seven tomorrow at my place?’

‘Yes. I’ll bring along my usual cheery good humour and positive approach to life!’