My Struggle: Book One by Karl Knausgaard

had to be found, transport there and back had to be arranged, and parents had to be avoided when you got home. After the first blissful occasion in Oslo I had therefore got drunk only twice. The second time threatened to go awry. Jan Vidar’s sister Liv had just got engaged to Stig, a soldier she had met in Kjevik, where her and Jan Vidar’s father worked. She wanted to get married young, have children, and be a housewife, a rather unusual dream for a girl of her age, so even though she was only a year older than us, she lived in quite a different world. One Saturday evening the two of them invited us to a little gathering with some oftheir friends. Since we didn’t have any other plans, we accepted and a few days later were sitting on a sofa in a house somewhere drinking homemade wine and watching TV. It was meant to be a cozy evening at home, there were candles on the table and lasagne was served, and it probably would have been cozy had it not been for the wine, of which there was an immense quantity. I drank, and I became as euphoric as the first time, but on this occasion I had a blackout and remembered nothing between the fifth glass and the moment I woke up in a dark cellar wearing jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt I had never seen before and lying on top of a duvet covered with towels, my own clothes next to me bundled up and spattered with vomit. I could make out a washing machine by the wall, a basket of dirty laundry beside it, a chest freezer by the other wall with some waterproof trousers and jackets on the lid. There was also a pile of crab pots, a landing net, a fishing rod, and a shelf full of tools and junk. I took in these surroundings so new to me in one sweep of the eye, then woke up rested and with a clear head. A door a few strides from my head was ajar, I opened it and walked into the kitchen where Stig and Liv were sitting, hands interlaced and glowing with happiness.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t Garfield,” Stig said. “How are you?”
    â€œFine,” I said. “What happened actually?”
    â€œDon’t you remember?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œNothing?”
    He laughed. At that moment Jan Vidar came in from the living room.
    â€œHi,” he said.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    He smiled.
    â€œHi, Garfield,” he said.
    â€œWhat’s with this Garfield?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t you remember?”
    â€œNo. I can’t remember a thing. But I see that I must have thrown up.”
    â€œWe were watching TV. A Garfield cartoon. Then you got up and beat your chest and shouted ‘I’m Garfield.’ Then you sat down again and chuckled.Then you did it again. ‘I’m Garfield! I’m Garfield!’ Then you threw up. In the living room. On the carpet. And then you were out like a light. Bang. Thud. Sound asleep. In a pool of vomit. And it was absolutely impossible to communicate with you.”
    â€œOh, shit,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Stig said. “The carpet’s washable. Now we have to get you two home.”
    It was only then that fear gripped me.
    â€œWhat’s the time?” I asked.
    â€œAlmost one.”
    â€œNo later? Oh, well, that’s okay. I said I would be at home by one. I’ll just be a few minutes late.”
    Stig didn’t drink, and we followed him down to the car, got in, Jan Vidar in the front, me in the back.
    â€œDo you really not remember anything?” Jan Vidar asked me as we drove off.
    â€œNo, I don’t, nothing at all.”
    That made me proud. The whole story, what I had said and what I had done, even the vomiting, made me feel proud. It was close to the person I wanted to be. But when Stig stopped the car by the mailboxes and I walked up the dark driveway clad in someone else’s clothes, with my own in a bag hanging from my wrist, I was scared.
    Please let them be in bed. Please let them