The unlikely stardom of Karl Ove Knausgaard
Subscriber content preview. or Sign In
Karl Ove Knausgaard regrets this interview.
We are seated at a café in the gallery of Oslo’s Art Deco Folketeateret, the same place where 18 years ago an editor commissioned what would become Knausgaard’s debut novel. At 45, he has shaggy hair and a punk-rock leather jacket that give him the air of a disaffected teenager. But as with Beckett at the same age, the deeply etched lines in Knausgaard’s face are already his most prominent feature. They fold a little deeper as he talks.
He regrets speaking to all journalists, he says. He won’t stop doing it, because he craves recognition as much as he is embarrassed by his desire for it, but he regrets it nonetheless.