I'm sitting here trying to contain myself now that My Struggle has come to The End. Where do you even begin with a series this extensive? Weighing in at over 1,150 pages and 3 lbs. (yes, I weighed it), we have Karl Ove Knausgaard in one corner; the rest of the world in the other. It's a title fight. A championship. I was in the front row and Karl Ove went the distance.

Unlike the other five books, this final book is so meta. In it, Karl Ove is contemplating life since and during publication of the other previous books in the series while also writing this current one, offering a unique perspective on his novels and where his life was taking him now that he was gaining celebrity status. It was otherworldly seeing the impact that his books had on his family, friends and self. While most of his family and friends expressed support of his previous novels, it was near impossible for them not to directly have some sort of impact on each of them, even when their names had been changed. Keen reporters would show up at their houses unannounced trying to get insider information. Journalists would break promises, saying one thing and delivering another. Most notably, one of Karl Ove's uncles was absolutely livid, claiming that events surrounding his brother's and mother's lives (Karl Ove's father's and grandmother's) had been horribly misrepresented and their names dragged through the mud for monetary gain. Most evident in this last book was the possible impact Karl Ove's books had on his current wife, Linda. The last couple of hundred pages led us through her suffering a major mental breakdown, however whether or not this was the direct result of being written about or if it was older symptoms recurring is not obvious, as mental illness is something she was diagnosed with years ago before she met and married the author.

Still present and pervading (as in all of the other books in this series) is Karl Ove's unflinching, deep, dark shame. It's palpable. The most seemingly innocuous things, such as driving above the speed limit, fill him with days of shame, so one can only imagine how his everyday interactions and close analysis of his life just overpower him with emotion. His is a person who feels deeply. Although his self-esteem is truly at base level, he was still incredibly brave to write in such detail about his life. As he says himself, in everyday life, no one ever knows the true us - our deepest thoughts and interactions are all buried within us and it's therefore impossible to ever really know another person one hundred percent. We say the things that placate and please others all the while running an internal dialogue that would dispel any version of our selves that others know. Even when we're not being especially nice, when we're fighting or in turmoil, no one ever hears our most harsh thoughts. What Karl Ove does is shows us exactly what he's thinking, so whenever he relays scenarios or conversations, we read his innermost rebuttals that beforehand were only in his head. In turn, those people that are closest to him - the people he's written about - read all of these true feelings, leaving Karl Ove exposed and vulnerable. This, of course, creates tension among certain people, but while this approach created some awkward schoolyard pickups, dinner dates and family meals, he holds steadfast to his decision to not wash over anything to spare his or others' feelings. It's all part of the formula that keeps the readers thoroughly engaged with his writing.

I can't review this book without mentioning the 400+ pages entitled The Name and the Number in which he analyzes: the importance of names, provides a detailed examination of poetry, characters in classics, God, death, night and nothingness and an in-depth review of Hitler's entire life, as he read Mein Kampf - (My Struggle - also the same name as his series). There is also a recurring interpretation throughout of I/we/they theories and how people belong to and are seen in the world. He notes that this section is what he started with when writing this book, but it just felt to me like the longest, never-ending detour. I was getting right into the original story - literally reading with a smile on my face throughout the first few hundred pages - as I plunged back into Karl Ove's life, so to have this gigantic non-fiction book placed within this other book just made no sense to me. I almost struggle to say something good about this section, because it comes so out of left field. Well...I certainly learned a lot about Hitler. My history knowledge is sadly lacking in many areas, so at least a learned quite a bit. Also, for someone who states that he's no good at understanding poetry, he certainly disproved that - the parts where he referenced poetry felt like an English professor's discourse in the art of deconstructing a poem; he distilled practically every word down to its most likely meaning, incorporating history, language and context. Kudos must also be given to the translator of this entire body of work - with so many turns of phrase, not to mention the sheer length of the novel, and to have it all ring true from start to finish, was a great feat.

Partway through this section, I started grasping at straws as to why this extensive essay-like information was included within this book. Does it go back to Karl Ove's interest in utopia? His own fearful father/son dynamic that's closely mirrored in that of Hitler and his own father? His parallel discomfort with women? Perhaps analysis of a same-named book? In any case, it was maddening to me, but I kept at it, anticipating getting through it and back to Karl Ove's family life in Malmo...

...which it did eventually. I am so happy I stuck through the whole thing and read this acclaimed series. Although outwardly simplistic in theory, it somehow becomes anything but. It's an ordinary yet compulsive look at a life lived so far to middle age. It's about family, friendship, coffee, feelings, love, self-analysis, loathing, book tours, shame, detritus, money, home, a brain, a body, a life. It's uniquely Karl Ove Knausgaard. A man who doesn't give a shit at all what any of us think about his books.

Kobo'da 555. sayfaya gelip Hitler'e dayanamadım. Türkçe çevirisini baştan okuyarak başladım. (Bal kobomu kırdı)Yıllar önce aynı cadde üzerinde oturmuş olmamızdan mı belki de yan yana geçmiş, aynı süpermarkette alışveriş yapmış olma ihtimalinden mi bilinmez. Yine çok eğleniyorum.

Så otroligt besviken på den här boken att jag inte ens kommer att läsa ut den. Jag har gillat de tidigare böckerna även om jag ibland tyckt han var lite tjatig. Men den här... Jag blir helt matt och trött på karln. Hur orkar han? Så tjatigt och ältande. Var höll redaktören hus? Han hade kunnat säga det han sagt på de 500 sidor jag har läst på 50.

Uneven and rambling, an unsatisfying conclusion.

Part I: 3 out of 5
Part II: 1 out of 5
Part III: 5 out of 5

"A memory is a ledge on the mountainside of the mind; there we are, drinking and chatting, and on the ledge below us my dad sits in his chair, dead, his face smeared with blood. And on a ledge below him we are sitting in a rest stop somewhere in the Agder region, Mom, Dad, Yngve, and I, we’ve been picking berries all morning, now we’re eating our picnic, and next to us is a river, its waters green and white and icy cold…" I started the series in fall 2015 - I'll miss these three and a half years of getting into Karl Ove's mind. Maybe a 400-page essay on Hitler and an in-depth analysis of Paul Celan's "The Straightening" are not the components one expects in a memoir amidst the narrator's family struggles - but they flow compellingly in Knausgaard's reverent, self-deprecating style. The pages on Hitler the Holocaust are deeply felt and feel fresh and relevant to our ongoing understanding of the so-called "evil", and the relationship between the "we" and the "I". Some reviewers mention the author's narcissism - that's not how I see it. I'd rather say it's the opposite, a deep suspicion for one's validity in the world. Whatever the magic mix is, this is a voice I have found sincere and compelling. And now, on to Knausgaard's fiction!

Made myself finish this because I read books 1-5. Took three tries, and I finally did it. If it weren’t for the 400 page pseudo-academic essay on Hitler, I would have given this book 5 stars.

I can’t believe I finished that series. I can’t believe I finished that book. It was incredible.

The 400 hundred pages he devotes to Hitler even worked well to explain the importance of this project.

It’s astounding that he wrote that. Maybe he’s not the best living author, but I would say for certain the best living writer.

85th book of 2024.

Karl Ove Knausgaard is a hypocrite and a liar. Volume Six becomes a metafiction and turns My Struggle into an ouroboros. It details, in part, the fallout surrounding the publication of the first few volumes. It also details Linda Boström Knausgaard’s mental breakdown, and includes a 500-page essay on ‘I-you-we-they-it’, otherwise exploring the dehumanisation of the Jews through a biography of Hitler’s early years, an analysis of Mein Kampf (he had to!), as well as Paul Celan, Holderlin, James Joyce, William Turner, Hermann Broch, Thomas Mann . . . among numerous other writers, artists, etc. It is the most demanding book. I started it two months ago, roundabout, left it for a month as I read The Magic Mountain then returned to it. Since Monday I’ve been ill, which is something that doesn’t happen often to me, so I’ve been miserable, perhaps insufferable for my girlfriend to be around me, but it has given me the opportunity to read some 400 pages and finish at long last. At the beginning of 2024 I finished Volume Two and now we are finished.

Alan and I have been discussing Knausgaard’s character throughout our journey, a journey which we embarked upon together. In Volume Three, Alan decided that Knausgaard must be telling the truth, or a lot of the truth, because his child self in that volume is so recognisable to his adult self. Too much so to be an invented self. In this volume, he starts complicating the whole matter. I think he does this on purpose. I mentally underlined many, many sentences and passages and thought to myself, Liar! Hypocrite! Knausgaard hates to be spoken about. Knausgaard criticises Kubizek, who wrote a book about being childhood friends with Hitler. So many years had passed by the time he wrote the book about him and young Hitler, so the conversations transcribed must be invented. Knausgaard baulks — no one remembers entire conversations from twenty years ago. And yet his own books are made of fully constructed and conversations from decades ago, sometimes more than twenty. In a way, certain elements reminded me of W.G. Sebald, who, like Knausgaard, sometimes seemed to be daring the reader. Go on, believe me. They seem to prove something and then in the same breath disprove it. The whole thing feels like a game or a trick. And yet, how addictive it is. I believe My Struggle is one of the great literary achievements of this century so far. I hardly doubt it for a second. For the past year, I have spoken about him to friends, colleagues, I have lived a life parallel to his. Knausgaard’s life has made me more aware and self-conscious of my own. I’ve started to think about myself in different contexts and ways. How am I perceived, and how do I perceive others? I’ve been more critical of myself: yes, I am at times selfish, miserable, more often than not, dour, melancholic. I joked in one volume, I forget which, that it was becoming uncomfortable how similar I am to Knausgaard, by my own perceptions. Knausgaard, in turn, seems, in this volume, to suggest he is very similar to Hitler. I joked further with Alan. I am partly German, Aryan, and once wanted to be an artist. Hitler and I even share the same birthday.

It’s no surprise that Knausgaard’s writing of Hitler is bold. He openly attacks the ‘definitive’ biography of Hitler by Kershaw, claiming it is biased and foolish. It’s biggest flaw, he says, is that it spins everything Hitler did as evil. Even as a sixteen year old boy. There is a passage from Kershaw he quotes that describes Hitler as being a lazy, selfish layabout. How he sits writing short stories, reading, visiting the theatre. Knausgaard asks us (dares us!) to swap the name Hitler for Rilke and see if we have the same opinions. So, Knausgaard spends his time defending young Hitler, who, at fourteen years old, sixteen years old, a child, was not evil. The biography, for this reason, was fascinating. A completely fresh look at Hitler, not as a monster, but as a regular boy, who was abused and had high aspirations. A budding artist. Not, we may think, so dissimilar to Knausgaard himself, who lived in fear of his own father and dreamed of being an artist. The essay however, at around 500 pages, was taxing. The volume would get 4-stars, but its 5-star is a reflection of the overall feeling, not only of the volume itself but its position, its stance and the way in which it concludes the series.

The beginning and ending are top-form Knausgaard. The mundane is exploded into something more. Something both genuine and profound. The act of putting your children to bed, making coffee in the morning, finding an hour to write. Once again the reader is invited into the private world of a family, to eavesdrop, observe. The whole thing works because it exploits the nosiness of human nature. As when I finished Proust, I put the book down and felt something like relief, yes, a kind of weightlessness, perhaps even unreality. I could feel the book, all six volumes, sinking into me, finding the places they will reside. Everything we read is in us, most of the time dormant, but part of our makeup. Alan and I decided we probably wouldn’t want to be friends with Knausgaard. But a pint? To sit down with a tall glass of lager and talk to him about this and that? That is hard to refuse.