My Struggle: Book One by Karl Knausgaard Page A

be in bed.
    And it looked as if they were. The kitchen lights were off at any rate, and that was always the last thing they did before going to bed. But when I opened the door and tiptoed into the hall, I could hear their voices. They were upstairs on the sofa by the TV chatting. They never did that.
    Were they waiting for me? Were they checking up on me? My father was the type to smell my breath. His parents had done that, they laughed about it now, but I bet he hadn’t at the time.
    It would have been impossible to sneak past them, the top of the stairs was right next to them. May as well face the music.
    â€œHello?” I said. “Anyone up there?”
    â€œHello, Karl Ove,” Mom said.
    I trudged up the stairs and stopped when I was in their field of vision.
    They were sitting beside each other on the sofa, Dad with his arm resting on the side.
    â€œDid you have a nice time?” Mom asked.
    Couldn’t she see ?
    I couldn’t believe it.
    â€œIt was okay,” I said, advancing a few steps. “We watched TV and had some lasagne.”
    â€œNice,” Mom said.
    â€œBut I’m pretty tired,” I said. “Think I’ll hit the hay.”
    â€œYou do that,” she said. “We’ll be on our way soon.”
    I stood on the floor four meters from them, wearing someone else’s jogging pants, someone else’s sweatshirt, with my own soiled clothes in a plastic bag. And reeking of booze. But they didn’t notice.
    â€œGood night then,” I said.
    â€œGood night,” they said.
    And that was that. I didn’t understand how I had managed it; I just accepted my good fortune. I hid the bag of clothes in a cupboard, and the next time I was alone in the house I rinsed them in the bath, hung them up to dry in the bedroom wardrobe, then put them in the laundry basket as usual.
    Not a word from anyone.
    Drinking was good for me; it set things in motion. And I was thrust into something, a feeling of . . . not infinity exactly, but of, well, something unlimited. Something I could go into, deeper and deeper. The feeling was so sharp and distinct.
    No bounds. That was what it was, a feeling of boundlessness.
    So I was full of anticipation. And even though it had passed off well enough previously I had taken a few precautionary measures this time. I would take a toothbrush and toothpaste with me, and I had bought eucalyptus pastilles, Freshmint, and chewing gum. And I would take an extra shirt.
    In the living room below I could hear Dad’s voice. I sat up, stretched my arms over my head, bent them backward, then stretched them out as far as they would go, first one way, then the other. My joints ached, and had all autumn. I was growing. In the ninth-class photograph, taken in late spring, my height was average. Now I was suddenly approaching six two. My great fear was that I would not stop there but just keep growing. There was a boy in the class above me at school who was close to six eight, and as thin as a rake. That I might follow in his shoes was something I imagined with horror several times a day. Now and then I prayed to God, in whom I did not believe, not to let this happen. I didn’t believe in God, but I had prayed to him as a young boy, and doing it now was as if my childlike hope had returned. Dear God, please let me stop growing, I prayed. Let me stay six two, let me reach six two and a half or six three, but no more! I promise to be as good as gold if you do. Dear God, dear God, can you hear me?
    Oh, I knew it was stupid, but I did it anyway, there was nothing stupid about my fear, it was just unbearable. Another even greater fear I had at that time was the one I had experienced on discovering that my dick was bent upright when I had an erection. I was deformed, it was misshapen, and ignorant as I was, I didn’t know if there was anything you could do about it, have an operation or whatever options there had been then. At night I got out of