Knausgård Quest #1

>>1188906
>>Get fit

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>>1188968

Just like a small object thrown with same force as a larger one passes faster, time passes quicker the less you have of it. Since I became a father I have barely had time for anything except them and writing. Now that I'm suddenly divorced and only have my writing to think about, my age strikes me with a weight it never had before. When did I become 47 years? In not very long I will be as old as my father was when he died.

I go outside, bringing a football. It doesn't take me much time before I remember all the moves from my childhood. It's like riding a biycle or having sex. The ball bounces up from my knee to my shoulders where I balance it for a while before dropping it to my heel, throwing it up over my body and catching it with the side of my foot where I balance it for a while. I'm starting to work up a sweat and the sky is turning dark. If I keep this tomorrow as well, surely I will become fit. Deep inside I know it's hopeless though. No matter how healthy I am, death always wins. In that way, there is nothing that reminds me as much of death as a perfectly, sun-tanned woman or man with a perfect body.

>What should Knausgård do now?

>>1192062
Go to a bar and find someone similarly in despair to drink with.

I want to test the limits of your photo stash, OP.

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>>1192073

I get into my car. The key is stuck inside, but by putting the plastic grip that is still attached to my keyring over the metal sticking out, I can manage to turn the key with some effort. The other day my mother was here and took my kids on a drive. She ended up calling a taxi to get them home because she couldn't get it to work. It still definitely works though, you just have to be a bit persistent. Driving towards Malmö city I'm awed studying the outlines of corn stalks and windmills in the thick darkness. It almost makes me feel like I could extend my hand and grab a handful of the dark to eat while I drive.

After parking my car I find whatever old coffee shop. Maybe it's a little company I need to brighten my day. As to my choice of coffee shop, I like to be surprised as long as it's not something like Starbucks. My oldest daughter always wants to go to Starbucks. I keep telling her it's not coffee, that she might just as well have a non-diet soda, but she won't listen. I don't want to be like my dad was towards me though, constantly telling me what I ought to think and not think, so lately I've been trying to just go with it.

Inside the coffee shop I get a cup and sit down on a nice leather chair by a table in the corner. I like to be able to see everyone who comes and goes. I haven't even had a sip of my coffee when a middle-aged woman suddenly comes over with a huge glass of dark yellow, transparent tea. She has dark hair and there is something almost elvish about her features.
"You're Knausgård, aren't you? The famous writer?"
I notice something playful in her eyes. Is she being flirty, or is she making fun of me? I know a lot of people don't like me. I would probably hate anyone in the papers as much as I was for a while. She could also be one of those femininsts. I don't really care about stuff like gender, but a lot of cultured Swedes want to make me into this big patriarch of Scandinavian culture.
"You were recently divorced weren't you?"

>How should Knausgård play out this situation?

>>1192085
>>Keep talking with her
How doe she know Knausgård is divorced, is he that famous?

>>1192196
probably from reading my struggle

>>1192085
give in to the despair

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>>1192196
>>1192202

"Yeah, I'm divorced."

I pick up my cup of coffee and try to drink from it like it doesn't matter to me whether she talks me or not. Although, fuck ... If she has read even 10 pages of my books she should know what a self-conscious prick I am. As these thoughts run through my mind, the coffee sets in my throat and I feel like coughing. As quickly as I can I swallow the coffee and then cough several times. I'm too relieved that I didn't cough all the coffee over the table and my legs to be very embarrassed by this.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just didn't expect the coffee to taste the way it did."

I'm lying through my teeth.

"Your attention to sensory detail was always one of the most impressive parts of your writing to me. Each coffee must be like a universe on its own to someone as sensitive as you," she says.

While she is talking I'm hit in the face by an almost sickeningly sweet perfume. It smells like vanilla and flowers with just the slightest hint of liquorice or even dark chocolate. It suits the beautiful, young blonde passing, laughing with her far, far uglier brunette friend, perfectly.

"Yeah," I tell the elf-like lady I'm talking to and smile awkwardly. Honestly I just drink coffee for caffeine and barely register the difference between instant coffee and the most exclusive Columbian brew.

The beautiful young blonde comes up on a small stage in the corner of the coffee shop. One of the waiters hand her a microphone. People around her start clapping with the rhythm as she begins to sing some pop song, Astrid S or Zara Larsson -- who can follow that stuff. The girl has no talent, but as a karaoke artist she is sublime as she fulfills the requirement that seperates the sublime karaoke singer from the simply bad one and that is enthusiasm and the willingness to let go.

"So maybe you and I could go somewhere and be alone?"

>What should Knausgård do?

>>1192268
>>Go with her
Maybe he can uses this experience for his next book.

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>>1192273

The thought of using my fame to get this women, who I'm not even particularly attracted to, fills me with shame. But I'm bored and lonely. Besides there is nothing that makes me write as much as shame, and maybe this is exactly what I need for my writing to get going -- I sure need something to be doing.

I stand up and stretch my arm out. The woman gets up and takes it like some young lady in an 18th century drama. With this woman clinging to my arm I start walking towards the exit of the coffee shop, passing the singing blonde.

"Wait," the blonde says over the music, playing with no one singing now. She looks around for someone to give the microphone to and, finding no one, puts it down on the stage, running towards me. Her rather ugly friend follows her.

"To be honest, I was just singing to get your attention, Knausgård."

So what they say about young, Swedish women being direct about these kinds of things is true, huh? It feels surreal that someone as beautiful would want me though. Before I was married, when I was obscure, that would never happen.

"Are you going to sleep with this woman?" the blonde goes on.

I look at her and then back at the blonde.

"In that case," the blonde says, "take me too."

"And me too," says her ugly friend.

>What should Knausgård do?

>>1192369
Tell her she is enthusiastic but a poor singer, her friend is ugly and I am not a piece of meat. Kids these days, they have no empathy. Do they even see any meaning in life?

I'm enjoying your writing OP.

>>1192369
>>Do them both, more material for the next book

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>>1193114

If I'm going to do this I might as well go all in.

"Yeah, sure," I tell them.

What have I become? Now I'm just like those professors at my university in Bergen who used to get all the girls they wanted.

Unfortunately it's the ugly brunette that grabs my other arm while the blonde walks in front of us, talking without a pause. Something about how much she related to my books. Everybody says that. I'm not sure if I like it or not.

I decide I might as well drive them home to the row of houses I used to share with my family. If they've been reading the books that came out after My Struggle, in particular, it'll be a little fan event for them as well to see how it looks in real life up close. Also, while we're driving home, I can hold some poetic speech about how the nature looks. If they are really fans they will love that. Even when taking three girls home for a threesome, I'm desperate to please ... I am so pathetic.

Finding my car, I grab the little plastic key grip and try to slip it on top of the metal that is already stuck inside, but no matter what I do, I just can't turn it this time. The girls have already put their seat belts on and they are small talking.

>What should Knausgård do?

>>1194654
Describe things you see out the window from a miserable point of view. All the people in the rat race, the disconnect from nature even as we snuff it out, how the fickle media has replaced religion as civilisations guiding moral voice. When we get to the house, tie them up.