The Wolves of Eternity

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I think that - in terms of something important that I can't fully articulate yet - Knausgård and Elena Ferrante are probably the world's best living novelists. When I read their books, I often get this strange, nonsensical feeling that this is the point and purpose of my consciousness... that somehow, my consciousness was "created" so that it could experience something as grand and lucid as this. This moment of taking an honest look at humanity and really seeing it, and understanding that we're all the same and that there's something sacred about all this seemingly mundane crap that we have to live through before we die. But one of my memories stands apart in a way. One that isn't connected with anything else. It was something I saw. And it was that winter, a few weeks before Christmas, 1977. But I can remember it without the help of any music. It's a memory that shimmers, ungraspable inside me. In The Wolves of Eternity, Knausgård revisits these horizons, only now he speaks of their limits, of the inadequacy of science: He raised the rifle slowly as he breathed out, and I realised suddenly that he was aiming towards the apple tree, where a raven stood watching us.

The Wolves of Eternity by Karl Ove Knausgaard review: big but

Det er en lang bok Knausgård har utgitt. Altfor lang. Bare ett år etter den nesten 700-sider lange Morgenstjerne kommer en bok på nesten 800-sider. Imponerende, kan man fort tenke, men det er det overhodet ikke. For selv om Ulvene fra evighetens skog er lang, er den på ingen måte omfattende.

Nominated to the 2004 Nordic Council’s Literature Prize & awarded the 2004 Norwegian Critics’ Prize. Status Quo, Slade, Mud, Gary Glitter, they were the bands we listened to. Those a bit older than us added in Rory Gallagher, Thin Lizzy, Queen and Rainbow. Then everything upended, at least it did for me, and all of a sudden it was Sham 69, the Clash, the Police, the Specials, nothing else would do. But they're bands I've kept listening to, on and off. That's never been the case with Status Quo. That's why it hit me the way it did, like an explosion. And it's why suddenly I cried when I heard the chorus of the title song. Med stor spenning og forventning gikk jeg inn i ARK-butikken på Trondheim Torg en fredag i slutten av oktober. Hele uken hadde jeg sett frem til dette, å kunne gå inn i en bokhandel og kjøpe Knausgård sin nye bok. Det høres kanskje ikke så spesielt ut, men det er ikke ofte man har slike opplevelser innenfor litteraturens verden, til det er det alltid altfor mange bøker som burde blitt lest for lenge siden. De sitrende følelsene ga meg en glede i seg selv, og nå i etterkant er det denne hendelsen, de forventningsfulle skrittene bort til nyhetshyllen i ARK-butikken, som vil være mitt beste minne knyttet til denne boken. Til selve lesingen er det knyttet langt mindre gledesfulle minner. Casts an existential spell… captivating… Big themes — the cosmos, death and resurrection — are amplified through ghostly visitations, doppelgänger lives and the question of what, if anything, lies beyond human existence Financial Times Inspired . . . Knausgaard’s book doesn’t shy away from big questions about the substance of his characters’ inner lives . . . [he] captures the spirit of a Russian novel.” — Publishers Weekly

The Wolves of Eternity by Karl Ove Knausgård review – cosmic

Men då skulle vi inte ha varit vi. Då skulle vi inte ha undrat över någonting, inte ställt en enda fråga. Like merkelig og rar som 'Morgenstjernen'. Trodde jeg skulle få svar på alle de løse trådene fra 'Morgenstjernen' i denne boka, som omtales som en frittstående oppfølger eller noe sånt. Det kommer få svar. Jeg blir forøvrig dratt inn i historien om Syvert, men synes det er drøyt at de første 400 sidene kun handler om ham. Historiens vending mot Sovjetunionen og Russland er interessant. Alt knyttes fint sammen på en litt for åpenbar måte, kanskje? The Wolves of Eternity, like some 19th-century Russian novel, wrestles with the great contraries: the materialist view and the religious, the world as cosmic accident versus embodiment of some radiant intention. Is this world shot through with meaning or not? Has there ever been a better time to ask?”—Sven Birkerts, The New York Times Book Review

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Karl Ove Knausgaard’s new book “The Wolves of Eternity

But then... the book got so profoundly good that after reading the whole thing, I have to give it five stars. Den nesten delen av boken utspiller seg i Russland, vekslende mellom ulike karakterer og stemmer, men hovedsakelig befinner vi oss i hodet til en middelaldrende biologiprofessor i Moskva. Hennes refleksjoner og menneskemøter åpner opp boken, slipper inn lys fra både evolusjonsteorien og den russiske kulturhistorien. Mange spennende tanker og situasjoner, formidlet gjennom en karakter jeg har langt mer sympati og forståelse for - til tross for at hun befinner seg i en helt annen verden enn min egen. Soon after his return, Syvert has a dream in which his father, who died some years earlier in a car accident, confides that his marriage was not a happy one. He is more vivid in the dream than in Syvert’s memory. This is the first slight bowing of the bass strings. From internationally bestselling author Karl Ove Knausgaard, The Wolves of Eternity is the new book in a visionary series that begins with The Morning Star. Expansive, searching and deeply human, it questions the responsibilities we have toward one another and ourselves - and the limits of what we can understand about life itself.I’ve no clue how all these things – the death metal, the transhumanism, the glowing morning star – might fit together in the end; if what he says about planning is true, perhaps Knausgaard doesn’t either (though he tells me there’ll be more about the music in the fourth book). But what is clear is that his pace is extraordinary and unrelenting: a prolixity that’s all the more astonishing if you know that when he reached the end of the autobiographical sequence whose English title is My Struggle, it seemed he might not write a novel ever again. I can’t work out how he does it. Isn’t it exhausting? All-consuming? He smiles. “No, it’s very simple. The key is not to think about the writing as good or bad, but to follow your fascination. That is hard, because there’s so much pressure to think of quality and self-presentation; to not appear stupid, or whatever. But the writing itself is easy.” The nature of the mind was something that lay beyond our horizon of understanding. The nature of the universe and the atoms: beyond. Time: beyond. Death: beyond. I said nothing to Mum about what had happened. I knew what she’d think. It’d be my fault for letting him try. I found my old air rifle in the cupboard. Do you fancy a go, Joar?’ He nodded from the doorway with his face turned towards me. ‘He’s only twelve,’ Mum said.