When the author cannot help but articulate.

We are so arrogant that we think we are [writing a novel] whereas we are not even capable of living, —Bernhard

To what extent is the author doing the right thing when he commits words to an idea which resists him. (The Idea, perhaps, balks at "commitment" in its adumbration of the mental asylum and flees.) What rough beast then results from the writer's compulsive technical Articulation. (I mean to over-write "Articulate" with the anatomical sense: connections between structures, flexion, extension at a joint, fixation, and the implied separation/disarticulation which precipitates a medical emergency.)

Saeterbakken's writing project appears to be motived by a horrible sensation without a voice, which inspires the prurient urge to produce the (lacrimal) emission. The novel is constructed from-back-to-front with this intention in mind. A lachrymal feeling is in search of a sad image which can excite it to produce more tears (similar to the lascivious feeling in search of the repetition of a prurient image), which appears to be the paradise-(innocence)-lost image of the child cowboy. We must contrive a way to tell this image to an interested third party (even better if they are an inverted family, an Other woman and with child). It goes without saying the child must now be dead, in part through our negligence, such that we can extract maximal pathos. We almost forget this scene, in which the son slowly ascends the stairs with a shiver of excitement, is impossible because we are already late for soccer practice (a practice at which he is now sure to excel due to the articulation of many extra weepy eyes and long legs). Likewise, narrative fixation on a "greatest fear," is intended to be realized as a kind of mantra within oneself - a slippery pebble of a feeling in search of a word, evading further analysis, which is articulated to walk on its hands. ( )

This is a brilliant novel, but it’s also a demanding read, one that will disturb you. I found it to be one of the most terrifying, depressing works I have ever read. I don’t concur with one review which said that this is “never at the level of Knausgaard”. I love Karl Ove, but I would think the opposite is true. ( )

Ehh... OK, so this was never at the level of Knausgaard, but the surprise ending left me confused and somehow feeling cheated– almost enough to knock my rating down a star. Overall, though, the experience was definitely better than a three, so... (I may have to update this brief rambling once my head has cleared from the daze the book all of a sudden put me in.) ( )