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thegirlbythefirelight · 3 years ago

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It is a tale told well. But it is cruel. And sadly, it is so to his family. Karl Ove Knausgard has written or ripped his heart, his life open in this series ‘Min Kamp’. ‘A Man in Love’ is just that- a story about young love, about marriage- the pretty, the tricky bits, about small progressions, little challenges in life- kids, apartment changes, in-laws, tiffs with one’s partner. The tragedies of youth, the permanence of decisions, the wounds we inflict, and those we survive. This story, the series, throws up some ethical questions. Repeatedly I had been astonished by the acuity of Knausgard’s observations about the mundane shards of life. As frequently, the divulged details, his feelings about situations, yes, but more about the people in his life left me shocked and, at times, feeling like a voyeur. We are all unkind, to our loved ones the most, but to put it down on paper and make it permanent is self-destruction of another kind. He remarked once- “When I started out on ‘Min Kamp,’ I was so extremely frustrated over my life and my writing. I wanted to write something majestic and grand, something like ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Moby Dick,’ but found myself with this small life - looking after kids, changing diapers, quarreling with my wife, unable to write anything, really.” That’s simple enough to understand. But how much is too much? It is not easy being a writer’s family. And Knausgard’s work proves that on a very different plane. If you read his interviews, he comes across as such a genuine and gentle person. And so I look at this book differently- we have felt so many of the things that Knausgard writes about- the shames, the frustrations, the horrors of being in situations we have no control over, of people, we are bound to through various threads- and I salute him. His writing is authentic and scary in its leap of faith. He has bled on paper., like how good writing demands you to. He has scarred himself and his family. His work is as real as it comes. #amaninlove #karloveknausgard #norwegianbookseries #delhibookstafam #delhibookstagrammer #indianbookstagrammer #womenwhoread #favouritereads #favouriteauthors #readingallthetime #literaryfiction (at Delhi, India) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfwaQqZvr_y/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#amaninlove #karloveknausgard #norwegianbookseries #delhibookstafam #delhibookstagrammer #indianbookstagrammer #womenwhoread #favouritereads #favouriteauthors #readingallthetime #literaryfiction

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abcsofbeijing · 12 years ago

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Brooklyn to Amsterdam: What I Remember

by A Man in Love

Our cabbie, a smartly attired Indian brother, knows the scenario all too well. Lovers reunited, do not disturb. How many times per day will he see this again? Through the fine morning mist, we are shuttled forth in the womb of a luxuriously sleek sedan. We are headed to parts unknown yet totally familiar….

Our arrival along Amsterdam’s cobblestone streets and scenic canals captures old memories but the excitement of you next to me overshadows any desire to point out landmarks. I want to treasure the newness of this occasion as ours alone.

Hotel Toren is not what I expect of four-star accommodations; but by day three, the red velvet curtains and chintzy furniture is almost comforting. I like our room, its radiated heat, renovated bath, halved sheets and no views. Tucked less than 20 feet from the elevator during, we are absolutely alone.

Some months ago, on the phone, you said if I did not take care to ravish you upon sight that you would presume something to be very wrong between us. But we take our precious time settling in anyway. It’s almost natural that we hardly kiss and make small talk while unpacking our luggage. While I think it’s the jetlag, I also remember half-expecting that there would be plenty of opportunities to satisfy my urges. Opportunities over the week and most expectantly when you return home again.

There is nothing to recall of the first time we make love that Sunday morning. It is obscured by fatigue. I remember the blood and the quest for food and drink. At Dam Square, we take our chances with Hong Kong Corner. The dim sum and tofu are comforting for you, but carnivore that I am I devour the duck with greater enthusiasm. By trip’s end, there will be nothing on our plates that the two of us cannot enjoy together: dim sum, tofu, trout, salmon, croissants, little coffees.

Our waiter is a study in the art of subtlety. So much character in that face, mouth, and words. He gesticulates from the neck up. His English is the thing of fiction, something of an un-assumed debonair quality. You say gay, I think televisual, a man made for silent films. I bet his lovers observe him in his sleep or at least watch him from across rooms. He is so what we both need to forget the garden variety over-bloated or expressionless types that populate our separate lives. What a different human being. I feel we are finally in the right place when we are together here.

There are two other parties dinning in our presence: the group of men behind us, and the family of four whom we listen in on. Will we always acknowledge phenotypically different couples? I hope not. Their son goes on and on. He is an adorable jabber mouth with all of his questions; we both covet him and I think we each salivate over the possibility of experiencing such seeming domestic bliss for ourselves. Were they not a fitting picture of your ideal family unit? How appropriate that the photograph we harangued them into taking reflects us at our most bourgeois disposition. You, good CM, scarfed and smiling, and then there is me, conservatively argyled, with pursed lips to boot. I would say somebody shoot me, but it ain’t all bad. I could do this and I know it now. You can pick a puppy when you get back.

You photograph yourself leaving the restaurant with flash – a no-no for mirror images. But that cagey smile of yours seems to stir something within me even now. This bad picture will have to stay. I think the image says, “Have a good time; relax!” And I do.

There is nothing like having a mouthful of your softest flesh. I can’t explain to you how charged I get when I catch your scent. When you call me to your mouth I am as alert and dependable as an electricity brain. I get turned on to you only. I look up from pinkish brown nipples to make sure I can see your puckish grin. You want to get fucked as bad as I do. So I grip hold of your thighs and buttocks. I try to squeeze out life and knead your doughy folds. I really want this to be a balance of opposites. But how do you describe pushing pillows and slick thrusts without sounding too glib? Besides, the motion is more like a piston even though I have a tendency to pound and hold when you do not offer a reciprocal force.

Afterwards, there is a modest feast. You break out the exotic fruit and I provide the scotch. The pinot noir you brought tastes like vinegar but we drink that too. We are overly liberal with the whiskey and I like that it sets your cheeks aflame.

There are photographic antecedents to the images of you and me in bed, and in those darkened night shots. The Philadelphia Sofitel, a bed-and-breakfast in Harlem both come to mind. And there is sadness in that still.

Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey, all morning…

The next day, you take a kind of sordid, kind of disheveled and ambiguous photo; our room looks like a heroin den. In the background I look concaved and dejected. I guess I’m either praying or smoking the pipe, or maybe both.

The last day we take some of the more touristic pictures to date; they seem rather formulaic and staged in hindsight. Only a careful study of memory and its surrounding architecture enables something far more brilliant to shine through. Beneath the poster for Biggie is Bilal whom we never made it to see. Along the canals, we have access to the last of the sun’s muted rays. For the rest of the vacation we simply miss out…

At lunch we again dine on excellent dim sum. You are careful to remind me that you intend to have perfected these morsels by the time you return. Such a thing to say to a man as he stands over your shoulder, indulging in the mingled scents of steamed dumplings while curiously fixated on the volume of black hair tucked behind your ear. I should tell you that the contrasting textures and graceful curvature of these forms leave me tingly inside. (You are like the surface of a dark river’s continual motion on a night when I cannot sleep.)

Funnily, there is a cropped photo of you and me, which recalls my glance in you as well as provides an example of the essence of which I speak. That look we give each other, that satisfies when it is not confusing, a sudden hushness that compels me daily to ask, “What are you thinking about?” And in your visage, the disappointing glance that suggests that I should know by now, that I should stop asking. Why don’t I know? Still not trusting, it seems. Always rushing it. Why don’t I just shut up and look at you. Me, the guy who thinks he can force nature, if not fabricate it: our very natural love, that is.

This trip reveals how much I have to learn from you. How much more there is to respect of you. While remembering, I think to myself that every possible connection can be made given the right wait. For your womanly wiles, I am hardly prepared. There was none of this before, mind you. Sure I kept coming, to NY, DC, Philly, whatever mid-way point we could manage, but that was more blind man’s bluff than the bold insightfulness I’ve given credit to. The ledge never bothered me; I just had that feeling, believed I could manage. But, now, from here, I sense that I have taken so much for granted. “Your letters,” I use to say to myself, “look at all these letters; there is only one thing that they could mean.” And so it goes, disappointingly, and with your eyes (along the canal ways, across from me in restaurants and bars, and beneath me, even), “Enough. Don’t you know already? Why don’t you know?”

I remember now, an appliqué of posters behind the silhouette of you. At every moment you seemed so photogenic. And every bar, a locale worthy of our presence. I’m like a kid inside, really; I want to stop and drink in each establishment as we make our way back to the hotel. This excitement is with me up until our very last night. At some point while strolling up Keizersgracht, we linger, then, kiss, and stumble upon Pulitzers. From the sidewalk we peer into a romantically lit interior with comfortable dark seating. The bar’s depth and ornate crown molding suggest a kind of reserve decadence that is so Dutch. It’s not as illustrative as the Toren’s parlor, which is hardly refined, but it does contain the occasional sketch and oil. Sort of like a minimal Rococo, if such a thing can be said with accuracy. I tell you or we agree while passing that we will most certainly drink here. Despite the suited men in the window and those sparsely scattered about other rooms, the site is inviting.

As always, we chat up the wait staff for mundane local lore: city taxes, industry, etc. But we use our interactions with others sparingly. Everyone being so unnecessary. Weren’t they? We learn of ‘t Zwaantje, a restaurant the Pulitzers’ bartender describes as a small Dutch-owned French-inflected concern. He so insists on the chef’s capabilities that I am as doubtful as I am convinced. But the food is fabulous and we are in love so what could be better. Dinner of fried mussels (a first for me) and grilled trout: everything is perfectly done. The light and tantalizingly fresh salad recalls my brief excursions into California. Something about having dinner in ‘t Zwaantje makes me very content with life if only for the moment. I try to explain, but it comes out rather odd, or more like I harbor some kind of Euro-fantasy.

All I was really trying to say was that as a kid I indulged in French and Italian films that glorified discretely romantic enclaves such as this. Places where our presence matters most and then paradoxically not at all to whomever could be interested. And of course we would be seated next to the kitchen and there would be bills and posters plastering the walls. People will speak German and Dutch within earshot and we will manage just swimmingly.

The city and the night—every night!—is ours. From my desk at home, alone, this evening, I am only now realizing the importance of always establishing physical contact with you. Monroe once called you my touch. What a beautiful terrible thing to say, I presumed. But now I comprehend that the phrase’s origins are far more visceral and therefore immune to the logic of moral reasoning. You are the woman I have always wanted to feel. This requires a late night walk to clear the air, to lower my anxiety. We amble together in solitude, in darkness. Until tucked away, down some inviting back street, providence has bequeathed us a table and chairs, light enough to see, and a pot of lavender. We talk, touch, and smell, before affirming the affirmative: I will wait; you will come.

#amaninlove #amsterdam #asia #love #travel #heartbreak #longdistancelove #loveandwar #brooklyn

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