“It was only then that I realized how little I normally felt, how numb I had become. “Before I knew what was happening, my eyes were moist,” he writes. The music’s beauty sneaks up and overwhelms him. Knausgaard’s extraordinary oeuvre arrives in Book Two of “My Struggle.” It’s when the narrator, also named Karl Ove Knausgaard, puts on Emmylou Harris’s “Anthology” CD while waiting for his wife to finish breast-feeding their daughter. Perhaps the most telling cathartic leak in Mr. You consistently want to hand him Visine, a box of Kleenex and a pair of dark sunglasses. He blubbers about beauty, about shame, about the death of cats, about art, about John McEnroe’s tennis defeats, about movies, about fatherhood, about rejection, about love, about fear. He cries all over the place in the first three volumes of his six-part autobiographical novel, “My Struggle,” especially in Books One and Three. Karl Ove Knausgaard, the powerful Norwegian novelist, is a weeper.
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