The Morning Star
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
A major new work from the author of the renowned My Struggle series, The Morning Star is an astonishing, ambitious, and rich novel about what we don't understand, and our attempts to make sense of our world nonetheless
It's a normal night in August....
It's a normal night in August....
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A major new work from the author of the renowned My Struggle series, The Morning Star is an astonishing, ambitious, and rich novel about what we don't understand, and our attempts to make sense of our world nonethelessIt's a normal night in August. Literature professor Arne and artist Tove are with their children at the resort in Sørlandet. Their friend, Egil, a driver by day, is staying in a cabin nearby. Kathrine, a priest, is on her way home from a seminar, the journalist Jostein is out on the town, and his wife Turid, who is an assistant nurse, has a night shift. Above them all, a huge star suddenly appears in the sky. No one, not even the astronomers, knows for sure what kind of phenomenon it is. Is there a star burning itself out? Why then has no one seen it before? Or is it a brand new star? Slowly the interest in the news subsides, and life goes on, but not quite as before, for unusual phenomena begin to occur on the fringes of human existence. Over these days in August, the characters the novel follows will each understand what is happening differently, and all face new struggles in their own lives.
The Morning Star is a novel about what we do not understand, about great drama seen through the limited lens of little lives. But first and foremost, it is a novel about what happens when the dark forces in the world are set free.
Lese-Probe zu „The Morning Star “
The sudden thought that the boys were asleep in their beds inside the house behind me while the darkness descended on the sea was so pleasant and peaceful that I wouldn't let go of it at first, but tried instead to sustain it and pin down what was good about it.We'd put the nets out a few hours earlier, so I imagined their hands still smelling of salt. There was no way they would have washed them without me telling them to. They liked to make the transition between being awake and asleep as brief as possible; at any rate, they would pull off their clothes, get under the covers and close their eyes without so much as switching the light off, as long as I didn't intervene with my calls for them to brush their teeth, wash their faces, fold their clothes up neatly on the chair.
Tonight I'd said nothing and they had simply slipped into their beds like some long-limbed, smooth-skinned species of animal.
But that wasn't what had felt so good about the thought.
It had been the idea of the darkness falling independently of them. That they were sleeping as the light outside their rooms retreated from the trees and the forest floor to shimmer faintly for a short while in the sky, before it too darkened and the only light left in the landscape came from the shining moon, spectral in its reflection on the surface of the bay.
Yes, that was it.
That nothing ever stopped, that everything only went on and on, day became night, night became day, summer became autumn, autumn became winter, year followed year, and they were a part of it, at that very moment, as they lay sound asleep in their beds. As if the world were a room they visited.
Across the water, the red beacons on top of the mast winked in the darkness above the trees. Beneath them lights glowed from the summer houses. I swigged a mouthful of wine,
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then jiggled the bottle to gauge how much was left, unable to see in the gloom. Just under half full.
When I was little, July had been my favorite month. Nothing unusual about that, it was the simplest, most carefree of months, with its long days full of light and warmth. Then, when I became a teenager, it was the autumn I'd liked, the darkness and rain, perhaps because it brought a sense of gravity to life that I found romantic and could measure up to. Childhood was a time for running around immersed in life, youth was the discovery of the peculiar sweetness of death.
Now it was August I liked best. Nothing odd about that either, I thought; I was in midlife, at that juncture in time when things come to completion, when slowly and steadily life's increasing abundance starts to stagnate, on the cusp of its beginning to wane, to tail off into quite as slow a decline.
Oh, August, your darkness and warmth, your sweet plums and scorched grass! Oh, August, your doomed butterflies and sugar-mad wasps!
The wind rose up over the sloping ground. I heard it before I felt it against my skin, and then the leaves in the treetops rustled a moment above my head before settling again. Rather like a person asleep, perhaps, turning over after lying still for a long time. And then quickly descending into deep sleep again.
On the flat rocks at the shore below, a figure came into view. Although from where I sat it was impossible to identify a person from such a shadowy outline, I knew it was Tove. She crossed over their smooth, gently inclining surface onto the jetty and from there onto the path that led up the slope. Not long after, I could hear her come up the grassy bank just below the garden.
I sat quite motionless. If she was alert, she would see me, but it had been days since she'd been alert to anything.
"Arne?" she said, and came to a halt. "Are you there?"
"I'm here," I
When I was little, July had been my favorite month. Nothing unusual about that, it was the simplest, most carefree of months, with its long days full of light and warmth. Then, when I became a teenager, it was the autumn I'd liked, the darkness and rain, perhaps because it brought a sense of gravity to life that I found romantic and could measure up to. Childhood was a time for running around immersed in life, youth was the discovery of the peculiar sweetness of death.
Now it was August I liked best. Nothing odd about that either, I thought; I was in midlife, at that juncture in time when things come to completion, when slowly and steadily life's increasing abundance starts to stagnate, on the cusp of its beginning to wane, to tail off into quite as slow a decline.
Oh, August, your darkness and warmth, your sweet plums and scorched grass! Oh, August, your doomed butterflies and sugar-mad wasps!
The wind rose up over the sloping ground. I heard it before I felt it against my skin, and then the leaves in the treetops rustled a moment above my head before settling again. Rather like a person asleep, perhaps, turning over after lying still for a long time. And then quickly descending into deep sleep again.
On the flat rocks at the shore below, a figure came into view. Although from where I sat it was impossible to identify a person from such a shadowy outline, I knew it was Tove. She crossed over their smooth, gently inclining surface onto the jetty and from there onto the path that led up the slope. Not long after, I could hear her come up the grassy bank just below the garden.
I sat quite motionless. If she was alert, she would see me, but it had been days since she'd been alert to anything.
"Arne?" she said, and came to a halt. "Are you there?"
"I'm here," I
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Autoren-Porträt von Karl Ove Knausgard
Karl Ove Knausgaard
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Karl Ove Knausgard
- 2021, Internationale Ausgabe, 688 Seiten, Maße: 15,8 x 23,5 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: Martin Aitken
- Verlag: Penguin Random House
- ISBN-10: 0593300602
- ISBN-13: 9780593300602
- Erscheinungsdatum: 02.10.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
In his first work of fiction since the six volumes of My Struggle, Knausgaard trades his bracingly autobiographical mode for a ravishing form of theologically infused fabulism. A mysterious celestial body appears in the late-August sky, accompanied by Biblical omens, hallucinations, and increasingly uncanny events in the natural world. Tracing the lives of nine interconnected characters, Knausgaard sets these enigmatic phenomena against the minutiae of everyday life. This combination of the universal and the intimate enables the novel to approach weighty subjects death and dying, belief and despair with both the thrust of a suspense narrative and the depth of a philosophical inquiry. The New YorkerKnausgaard s sentences, in Martin Aitken's translation, are both plainly direct and lyrically, emotionally elevated . . . Symphonic. Heidi Julavits, New York Times Book Review
Knausgaard retains the ability to lock you, as if in a tractor beam, into his storytelling. He takes the mundane stuff of life the need to take a leak, the joy of killing pesky flies and essentializes them . . . Knausgaard is among the finest writers alive. Dwight Garner, New York Times
[Knausgaard s] imagination functions perfectly. . . . Just as we begin to wonder where he is taking us, whether he is capable, he gets us there. Actually he does what we might never have expected of Knausgaard: he carries us into a Land, like a part-animal or genderless guide. Patricia Lockwood, London Review of Books
[Knausgaard] reveals himself to be a surprise master of the uncanny . . . The storytelling gift that kept readers enthralled by My Struggle remains powerful. Like Stephen King, another inspiration here, Knausgaard stays shoulder-close to his characters, his paragraphs mimicking the erratic interleaving of their thoughts . . . This is a thoughtful, highly readable novel, packed with ideas and exciting flourishes.
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Charles Arrowsmith, Los Angeles Times
Without quite turning into Stephen King, Knausgaard has managed a page-turner that s recognizably his own. The true sign of the master s touch: he writes too much but always leaves you wanting more. Christian Lorentzen, Air Mail
Knausgaard s first traditional novel since the 2008 translation of A Time for Everything offers a dark and enthralling story of the appearance of a new star . . . Knausgaard wheels wildly and successfully through various forms. His focus on the beauty and terror of the mundane will resonate with fans of My Struggle . . . For the author it s a marvelous new leap. Publishers Weekly (starred)
Readers hungry for more of [Knausgaard s] immersive storytelling will burn through this tome. Booklist
Without quite turning into Stephen King, Knausgaard has managed a page-turner that s recognizably his own. The true sign of the master s touch: he writes too much but always leaves you wanting more. Christian Lorentzen, Air Mail
Knausgaard s first traditional novel since the 2008 translation of A Time for Everything offers a dark and enthralling story of the appearance of a new star . . . Knausgaard wheels wildly and successfully through various forms. His focus on the beauty and terror of the mundane will resonate with fans of My Struggle . . . For the author it s a marvelous new leap. Publishers Weekly (starred)
Readers hungry for more of [Knausgaard s] immersive storytelling will burn through this tome. Booklist
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