Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘Intertextuality in James Joyce’s Ulysses ’ was the working title of the assignment. It was ambitious, I knew that, but I had an aim and an intention with it, I wanted a sensationally good grade and so I had to go for it.

As Julia Kristeva had coined the term intertextuality at first I concentrated on her and read Revolution in Poetic Language, but I was unable to understand, it was simply too hard. She wrote a lot about Lacan, I wanted to go to the source and I read a book by him in a Swedish translation, which if this were possible was equally difficult, especially because both his and her ideas originated from a kind of basic structuralist stance, which was new to me. In some ways it made me feel proud, as I was dealing with material at such a high level, in some ways it made me feel desperate and angry, as I could never quite grasp the ideas. Almost but not quite. Furthermore, it was problematic that so many of their references were unfamiliar; if any were familiar at all they were always vague, and that was no good, accuracy was the very premise of this activity at literature’s particle level. The novel itself, Ulysses, was, however, not difficult to understand, it was about one day in three people’s lives, told in chapters with widely varying styles. I got hold of a book that went through all the references to Dante in Ulysses, I doubted any of the lecturers had it, so I could use it freely, perhaps let Dante’s presence in Joyce be the principal example of the book’s intertextuality.

I bought a second-hand computer when my study loan came, an Olivetti, from one of Yngve’s friends, Borghild, whom I had met the first time I went to Café Opera, she had become an editor at Syn og Segn and hung around with Asbjørn for a short period. She wanted five thousand kroner for it, a quarter of my study loan, but this was my future we were talking about, so I agreed and for the first time in my life wrote letters on a screen and not a sheet of paper. Green luminous futuristic letters, which were stored on one of those tiny floppy disks, as they were called, and could be summoned up whenever I wished. There was also a game of Yatzy on the computer, I could sit throwing dice for hours on end, they were green and luminous as well. Sometimes this was how I started the day, an hour’s Yatzy before breakfast. Yngve and Asbjørn did the same, and if I set a new record I always told them when we met.

Gunvor had also bought a computer, occasionally I took my floppy disks with me and wrote on hers, either after she had gone to bed, only a few metres away, and lay asleep, breathing, tossing and turning, the way sleepers do, in a completely different world from the one I was in, or after she had gone to the reading room for the day. I didn’t show my face at the university, everything was about the assignment this semester, so I might as well read and write at home, I thought. In practice, I often ended up doing nothing, the days passed doing shopping, having breakfast and reading a newspaper, looking out of the window, perhaps going to some record shops or second-hand bookshops in town, returning home for lunch, spending the evening with Espen or Gunvor, unless I went out drinking with my fast-dwindling money. If I went with Espen or Gunvor and her friends things always turned out fine, I got back home without having lost control, but if it was anyone else, that is, Yngve and his friends, it was a much riskier venture. Once, at five in the morning, I came home without a key and rang the bell, fortunately Gunvor had been sleeping at my place, she opened the door, in her eyes I could read fear, I walked past her, wanting only to sleep, remembered nothing of the way home or any of the night, only the moment I stood at the door unable to find my key remained.

‘Whose jacket’s this?’ Gunvor said.

‘It’s mine of course,’ I said.

‘No, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘You’ve never had a jacket like this. And what’s this? There’s blood on it! What happened?’

I examined it. It was a blue denim jacket. There was blood on the lapel.

‘It’s my jacket. I’ve had it for years. I don’t know what you’re going on about. I’m off to bed. I’ve had it.’

When I woke it was one o’clock and the bed was empty, she had gone to her lecture at nine as always.

I remembered nothing from when I was at Garage until I was standing outside the door.

Freezing cold and frightened, I went into the hall and re-examined the jacket hanging there. I had never seen it before.

It didn’t have to mean much. I had probably been to a party and picked up the wrong jacket from the heap, I had been drunk and that wasn’t so strange.

But the blood?

I went into the bathroom to look at my face. Nothing, not so much as a nosebleed.

So the jacket must have been bloodstained from before.

I rinsed my face in cold water and went into the kitchen. I could hear Jone’s radio, I knocked on his door and poked my head in. He was sitting in his armchair with a record cover between his hands.

‘Want some coffee? I’m making some now.’

He laughed.

‘What a sight! Did you go out last night?’

I nodded.

‘Yes, I’d like some coffee,’ he said.

‘I don’t remember a thing,’ I said.

‘Have you got the shakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll go. I’m sure nothing happened. Can you smell any perfume?’

‘No.’

He laughed.

‘That’s all right then. I don’t suppose you killed anyone, either.’

But that was precisely what was worrying me.

I put on the espresso maker and heated a little saucepan of milk. Jone came in when the pot had finished hissing, took a cup from the cupboard, poured some coffee, placed a foot on a chair and blew at the steam coming from his cup.

‘The police were here when I was leaving this morning,’ he said.

‘Ha ha,’ I said.

‘It’s true! I was on my way downstairs, and there, you know, by the post boxes, were two policemen. They were opening the door with a crowbar. They didn’t say anything, they were silent, didn’t even look at me. Just yanked open the door. Surreal.’

‘Was it a raid or what?’

He shrugged.

Some immigrants lived on the ground floor, it was always packed with people, Espen thought they might have been selling dope, and the fact the police were there suggested he was right. On the other hand, they might not have had residence permits. Jone, who chatted to everyone, had also tried to talk to these neighbours of ours, but without much luck.

‘How’s it going with the band? Kafkatrakterne?’

He laughed again. The name was too studenty for his taste.

‘It’s going well,’ I said. ‘We’re playing tonight.’

‘By the way, got a few bargains up north,’ he said. ‘Do you want to see them?’

He had taken the bus all the way up to Trondheim and back again over the weekend just to go to a record fair.

Anything that could make me forget the night was good and I followed him into his room. He dug out a few singles, all in plastic covers, mostly Norwegian punk and new wave.

‘Do you remember this one?’ he said, passing me Blaupunkt, ‘Let Me Be Young’.

‘Yes, I do!’

Betong Hysteria, Kjøtt, Wannskrækk, Lumbago, The Cat and some DePress singles followed.

‘This is one for you,’ he said and took out a completely round XTC cover, it was The Big Express in the shape of a train wheel.

‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Not that much. A hundred and fifty? Two hundred?’

‘Why not two hundred and fifty?’ I said.

He laughed.

‘I’ll give it a miss,’ I said. ‘I’ve got it.’

I smacked my forehead.

‘I used to have it.’ I had forgotten my stupid stand at the fair.