“Who I am to them I have no idea, probably a vague memory of someone they once knew in their childhood years, for they have done so much to one another in their lives since then, so much has happened and with such impact that the small incidents that took place in their childhoods have no more gravity than the dust stirred up by a passing car, or the seeds of a withering dandelion dispersed by the breath from a small mouth. And oh, wasn't the latter a fine image, of how event after event is dispersed in the air above the little meadow of one's own history, only to fall between the blades of grass and vanish?” PeopleChildhoodMy StruggleKarl Ove KnausgaardKarl Ove KnausgårdMin Kamp Book:Min kamp 3 Source: Min kamp 3
“Oh, we hd danced to Frankie Goes to Hollywood. "The Power of Love." The POWER of LO-OVE! But Hanne, Hanne. Feeling her so close to me. Standing nearly as close and talking. Her laughter. Her green eyes. Her small nose. Just before we left, on the way out, she had pinned the button on me. That was what had happened. It wasn't much, but the little there had been was fantastic.” LoveChildhood Book:Min kamp 1 Source: Min kamp 1
“The smooth, flat rocks were exactly the same, the sea pounded down on them in the same way, and also the landscape under the water, with its small valleys and bays and steep chasms and slopes, strewn with starfish and sea urchins, crabs and fish, was the same. You could still buy Slazenger tennis rackets, Tretorn balls, and Rossignol skis, Tyrolia bindings and Koflach boots. The houses where we lived were still standing, all of them. The sole difference, which is the difference between a child’s reality and an adult’s, was that they were no longer laden with meaning. A pair of Le Coq soccer boots was just a pair of soccer boots. If I felt anything when I held a pair in my hands now it was only a hangover from my childhood, nothing else, nothing in itself. The same with the sea, the same with the rocks, the same with the taste of salt that could fill your summer days to saturation, now it was just salt, end of story. The world was the same, yet it wasn’t, for its meaning had been displaced, and was still being displaced, approaching closer and closer to meaninglessness.” ChildhoodMemory Author:Karl Ove Knausgård