Reading Ove Knausgaard at 4 AM: A Friend to See Me Through the Night

I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning, dawn’s light still absent, an annoying habit of mine, worsened by turning-in too late, despite ardent resolve to do better. God knows, I need more than four hours of sleep, and I pay for it, drifting off repeatedly as day unfolds.

To cope, I try teasing myself back to slumber—whatever works—like counting up to 100 in Italian, gleaned from daily Italian lessons. Or better, groping for the iPad beside me to resume my daylight read, Karl Ove Knausgaard’s massive My Struggle, despite blue light barriers to sleeping well.

I read a lot—mainly books I often list in Brimmings each New Year’s Day. Right now, I’m deep into Book Two of My Struggle, part of a six-volume series totaling nearly 3,600 pages—or three times the length of War and Peace.  In contemporary writing, only Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Novels, at roughly 2,000 pages, come close in length. (Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past runs to 3000 pages across seven volumes.)

Overall, Book Two details Knausgaard’s move to Sweden, his family life with second wife, Linda, and their three children; the tensions arising from his obligations to family life and dedication to writing:

Now I had everything I had dreamed of having since I was a teenager: a family, a wife, children—yet none of it made me happy. On the contrary, I was constantly on the verge of tears, I was always angry, always tired.”

The love I had for Linda was not stable and warm but consuming and often destructive.

I’m attempting all six volumes. I wonder how many have done this and for what reasons. My guess is very few have climbed the mountain, but I’m liking the climb.

In his penchant for recalling past event, interspersed with personal reflection narrated over several volumes, Knausgaard has often been compared with Marcel Proust.

While his prose may lack Proust’s lyricism, it compensates with acute playback of places lived, voices heard, and life’s everyday ironies. It’s like he’s sitting across from you, filling the room, talking to you directly.

Though he’s won several Scandinavian literary awards, he’s yet to take home a prestigious International Booker translation prize or Nobel.

Writing in Norwegian hasn’t helped. There are only 5.5 million Norwegians. It’s the uphill climb all non-English writers face in an industry still dominated by native Anglophones.  And so I commend  The New York Review of Books for its continued effort to revive works originally not written in English.

Some critics think Knausgaard narcissistic for his self-focus, but they forget: he’s writing memoir. Anyway, when is writing anything but a quest to be heard or validated? I think they’re being simplistic.

In Norway, readers were shocked at Knausgaard’s inclusion of family and friends, names unchanged, intimate details not held back. An uncle threatened to sue and former wife, Linda, suffered mental distress, requiring therapy.

Knausgaard can make anyone uncomfortable. He doesn’t hold back about life’s often brutal truths. But to me, that’s his strength. I like writers who unflinchingly deliver human experience.

Knausgaard writes what’s known as autofiction, a blurring of the distinction between the factual and the fictional. Memory, subject to filtering, is unreliable. We cannot even say we fully know ourselves. By this yardstick, even autobiography becomes an act of arbitrary inventory—selecting, omitting, fabricating—and, hence, approximates fiction, or as Knausgaard puts it, memory “is not a reliable quantity in life” as it  “doesn’t  prioritise the truth, but rather self-interest.”

I admire his directness and minute detail. I revel in his feel for nature’s splendors, vignettes of people and their eccentricities, the fiery fever of first love; thoughts on today’s politics, obsessions imposing self-censure, the ennui often accompanying contemporary existence, and not least, the myriad burdens of the writer’s life.

I always longed to be away from it. So the life I led was not my own. I tried to make it mine, this was my struggle, because of course I wanted it, but I failed, the longing for something else undermined all my efforts.

The foregoing passage helps explain the series title, My Struggle, with its provocative echoes of Hitler’s Mein Kampf.  Knausgaard’s struggle, however, is an existential one—that of locating oneself in a world often hostile to individuality, of finding balance between writing and family, each under pressure of cultural conformity.

…perhaps it was the prefabricated nature of the days in this world I was reacting to, the rails of routine we followed, which made everything so predictable that we had to invest in entertainment to feel any hint of intensity?

Knausgaard’s critique of cultural homogenization, creeping across Europe like some unchecked fungus, especially resonates with me:

There was the revulsion I felt based on the sameness that was spreading through the world and making everything smaller? If you traveled through Norway now you saw the same everywhere. The same roads, the same houses, the same gas stations, the same shops. As late as the sixties you could see how local culture changed as you drove through Gudbrandsdalen, for example, the strange black timber buildings, so pure and somber, which were now encapsulated as small museums in a culture that was no different from the one you had left or the one you were going to. And Europe, which was merging more and more into one large, homogeneous country. The same, the same, everything was the same.

Thoughts arise of  a visit to Moscow’s Red Square with my students, of fast-food chains—TGI Friday’s, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, KFC—littering its periphery, exporting America’s consumer culture and eroding local identity; memories of a journey to France—a student lamenting time and money visiting Europe, only to find blue jeans, blaring American music, and global brands echoing home.

There ‘s a humility clinging to Knausgaard’s narrative, a confessed reticence to assert himself in a society indifferent and perhaps judgmental in its appraisal of those differing from the norm:

I subordinated myself, almost to the verge of self-effacement; some uncontrollable internal mechanism caused me to put their thoughts and opinions before mine.

I saw myself as the weak, trammeled man I was, who lived his life in the world of words.

My Struggle abounds in quotable reflections that I hasten to underscore like this hauntingly melancholic passage, evoking a past where dignity, nature, and artistry coexisted—however harsh the drawbacks of its era:

…if there was a world I turned to in my mind, it was that of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with its enormous forests, its sailing ships and horse-drawn carts, its windmills and castles, its monasteries and small towns, its painters and thinkers, explorers and inventors, priests and drugstores. What would it have been like to live in a world where everything was made from the power of your hands, the wind, or the water? What would it have been like to live in a world where the American Indians still lived their lives in peace? Where that life was an actual possibility? Where Africa was unconquered? Where darkness came with the sunset and light with the sunrise? Where there were too few humans and their tools were too rudimentary to have any effect on animal stocks, let alone wipe them out? Where you could not travel from one place to another without exerting yourself, and a comfortable life was something only the rich could afford, where the sea was full of whales, the forests full of bears and wolves, and there were still countries that were so alien no adventure story could do them justice, such as China, to which a voyage not only took several months and was the prerogative of only a tiny minority of sailors and traders, but was also fraught with danger. Admittedly, that world was rough and wretched, filthy and ravaged with sickness, drunken and ignorant, full of pain, low life expectancy and rampant superstition, but it produced the greatest writer, Shakespeare, the greatest painter, Rembrandt, the greatest scientist, Newton, all still unsurpassed in their fields, and how can it be that this period achieved this wealth? Was it because death was closer and life was starker as a result? Who knows?

Knausgaard has this way of arresting you mid-thought and making you reassess your values.

Book 2  emphasizes the fissure between the expected of you and living your true self. For writers living in a world of the utilitarian with its compromises, the challenge of finding equilibrium can be daunting :

To write is to carve a path through the wilderness. It is to find something that has not been said before, something you can believe in, something that gives meaning to your life.

Again, the unstinting honesty, whether commenting on contemporary mores, engaging in philosophic reflection, or offering informed opinion separating the trivial from the significant.

They say Book 6, 1000 pages long, is steep in philosophical reflection. Whatever, I look forward to the climb.

The New Yorker critic James Wood praises Knausgaard’s ability to extract the profound from the mundane as “hypnotically compelling.”

The Atlantic’s William Deresiewicz applauds Knausgaard’s philosophical depth as a “contemporary Proustian endeavor.”

Life is never simple for Knausgaard in his dense weave of mystery and randomness, of inheritance and free will, of human frailty and moral striving..
I find that compelling.

And so, even when I awake, the silent stars my sole companions, I find pleasure in his company, a friend to see me through the night.

–rj

 

An Owl’s Story: Carl Safina’s Alfie and Me

There exist those books you wish wouldn’t end. Carl Safina’s Alfie and Me: What Owls Know and Humans Think was that kind of book for me.

I had read Safina’s excellent View from Lazy Point several years ago, impressed with its detailed oberservations of wildlife and an arctic indigenous community across four seasons. That same concern for indigenous well-being and the plight of animals in a changing world continue with Alfie and Me.

Safina, a widely published ecological author and Endowed Professor of Nature and Humanity at Stony Brook University, is an expert in marine biology and recipient of many honors, including a MacArthur Fellowship, sometimes dubbed “the genius grant.”

In all his writings, Safina’s focus is on how humans relate to nature, a theme manifestly central to Alfie and Me, chronicling the story of an orphaned Eastern screech owl found in Safina’s Long Island backyard in 2018. Over the course of eighteen months, Safina and his wife, Patricia, nurtured the owl—whom they named Alfie—until her eventual release, creating a rare, intimate portrait of interspecies connection and nature’s resilience.

Safina becomes nearly a helicopter parent, monitoring Alfie’s daily development, torn between fostering her independence and protecting her from the harsh realities of the wild: “… I knew—as she did not—the relative meaninglessness of a life without risks.” An estimated two thirds of young screech hours die shortly after leaving their parents’s nest.

I found myself anxious for Alfie’s survival. Would she learn to fly, to hunt, to mate? Could she survive storms, drought, and the many predators that lurk in her world?

Species survival today depends not only on healthy ecosystems, but increasingly on humans recognizing their relationship with nature as essential to mutual survival.

Safina criticizes Western philosophy for severing this connection, beginning with Plato’s split between the material and spiritual worlds—deeming the material inferior and ultimately fueling nature’s exploitation: “Plato and his followers were perhaps the first people to feel revulsion toward the world. By forever separating our material world from the realm of perfection, Plato propounded a stark dualist doctrine,” Safina says.

For Safina, “This might be the most consequential idea in the history of human thought, its implications almost literally Earth-shattering. Most fundamentally, we are left with: an existence at odds with itself.”

Descartes and Bacon subsequently embodied a modern mechanistic view of nature, oblivious to nature’s sanctity and evolutionary intelligence, leading to its objectification. “The great blindness of the West is to grope the world as inventory,” Safina writes.

In contrast, Safina draws richly from Eastern traditions, which emphasize the unity of all life and the reverence owed to the source from which we came. Although his book is replete with references to Hindu, Buddhist, and Taoist thought, he finds Confucianism especially compelling for its focus on relationships.

Safina also turns to Indigenous cultures as contemporary models of living in harmony with nature. Their ways often involve mindful observation and sustainable stewardship rooted in mutual respect: “For most of human history, Native peoples, more intimate with their existence than we with ours, perceived that Life and the cosmos are mainly relational,” Safina says.

Reading Alfie and Me, I couldn’t help but think of the estimated one billion birds projected to die globally in 2025. According to the Audubon Society, North America alone has lost 25% of its bird population since 1970—about 3 billion birds. Contributing factors include climate change, deforestation, pesticides, habitat destruction, urban structures, insect decline, and free-roaming cats.

Safina’s book appeared in 2023, or before the current avian flu outbreak, which over the past 18 months has led to the confirmed deaths of millions of wild birds in North America—many of them common backyard visitors. The virus has now reached poultry as well, despite the culling of over 166 million birds. A future in which birds no longer sing at sunrise, once unthinkable, now feels disturbingly plausible.

This avian decline is largely human-made, driven by an economy that prioritizes profit over preservation

Why write about birds, some might ask. Shouldn’t human needs come first?

Safina answers with the words of Catholic monk Thomas Merton: “Someone will say you worry about birds: why not worry about people? I worry about both birds and people. … It is all part of the same sickness, and it all hangs together.”

Alfie and Me is not only a poignant narrative about an orphaned owl, but also a powerful meditation on our shared existence, affirming Safina’s truth: “that no isolated separation is possible. We are participant members in one existence—of life, of the cosmos, of time.”

–rj

Finding the Virtuous in Troubled Times

Reading the news, we’re likely to despair of finding good people who inspire through example. But they exist—people like John Woolman, Oskar Schindler, Nelson Mandela, Jimmy Carter, the Dalai Lama, and Pope Francis. This morning, I was reminded of this in reading Marcus Aurelius’ observation:

“When you need encouragement, think of the qualities the people around you have: this one’s energy, that one’s modesty, another’s generosity, and so on. Nothing is as encouraging as when virtues are visibly embodied in the people around us, when we’re practically showered with them. It’s good to keep this in mind” (Meditations, Book 6).

As my favorite journalist, Nicholas Kristof, writes in his superb memoir, Chasing Hope, “I’ve interviewed warlords and terrorists, but the people who have left the deepest impression are the saints who give their all to make this a better world”

—rj

Finding Myself and Contentment, Too

Time moves swiftly, and I’m astonished that twenty years have passed since I retired from teaching. On the whole, these years have been rich and fulfilling, offering me the space to rediscover myself, travel widely, and immerse myself in new pursuits—whether delving into meditation, completing a course on the Brazilian basin, or exploring the ever-expanding frontiers of AI. Most recently, I’ve taken up the challenge of learning to read Italian.

I read voraciously across a vast range of subjects, continually captivated by the alchemy of syntax and the resonance of wisdom—each new insight opening doors to deeper understanding, heightened empathy, and more meaningful conversation.

In essence, I’ve spent these years following my own path, embracing the art of self-cultivation, and discovering a quiet, enduring contentment—even in a world often burdened with turmoil.

rj

Trump Environmental Rollbacks: Travesty in the Making

The Trump administration is accelerating its broad assault on environmental protections and climate change mitigation, putting both public health and the planet at risk. It began with the U.S. withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement, a pact signed by 200 nations.

Dismantling Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act, Trump has rolled back roughly 125 environmental policies in just two months, issuing executive orders to expand oil and gas drilling on public lands and increase logging in national forests.

Meanwhile, 1,600 workers have been cut from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), undermining critical weather forecasting and public safety.

Aid to developing countries for green initiatives, once provided through the International Partners Group, has been halted.

FEMA, responsible for disaster relief, is under review.

The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)—established by Richard Nixon in response to Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring—has pivoted to pro-fossil fuel advocacy. Forget about EVs, charging stations, or clean energy incentives.

It doesn’t stop there. Reuters reports today that the Department of Energy is considering slashing millions in funding for two major carbon capture projects in Louisiana and Texas. These projects, once fully operational, could remove an estimated two million metric tons of carbon annually.

Long standing congressional mandated legislation such as the Clean Air Act, the National Environmental Policy Act, the Clean Air Act, the Endangered Species Act, the Noise Reduction Act, and the Endangered Species Act face Trump’s bludgeoning. The courts must act to stop the carnage.

All of this comes as the world falls short of its pledge to limit warming to 3.6°F (1.5°C) above pre-industrial levels.

Trump, of course, remains unbothered. He has long dismissed climate change as a “hoax.”

Unfortunately, we will all pay an incalculable price for electing a renegade despot, mindlessly sabotaging the public’s welfare and our children’s future.

—rj

The Greek Ideal We Need Today

The Greeks called it aretè, a concept I’ve never forgotten since my beloved early professor, Thomas Pappas, introduced me to it.

Often translated as “virtue,” it encompasses far more—not just moral goodness, but the pursuit of excellence in every endeavor. Plato expanded the idea to include wisdom, justice, and self-control.

Aristotle, in turn, emphasized that aretè arises from reason and consistent practice. As he put it, “Moral excellence comes about by cultivating habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.”

Examples of aretè abound in classical literature. Take Odysseus, for example, in The Odyssey, undertaking a ten year journey to reach home, overcoming every obstacle thrown his way through intelligence, resilience, courage and leadership.

Antigone provides another example of aretè. Defying King Creon’s decree, denying her brother burial, Antigone exemplifies moral courage in defying the autocratic king.

Does aretè exist today?

Nelson Mandela comes to mind. Imprisoned for 27 years, Mandela opted for reconciliation over bitterness, unity over revenge in post-apartheid South Africa, reflecting aretè in its highest moral and political form.

Aretè isn’t reserved for just the famous; it can be seen in frontline workers, teachers, activists, and individuals who strive for excellence in their fields, steadfast in upholding ethical principles.

In all things, excellence matters, and in these tumultious times, we need areté more than ever.

—rj

A President Unhinged: Menace To All


The stock market went crashing yesterday, precipitated by Trump’s glibly informing press that a recession may well happen.

Apparently, he’s blown it with the Ayatollah as well, urging renewed negotiations to limit Iran’s march to a nuclear arsenal or face a military response, resulting in the Ayatollah’s rebuff that Iran won’t negotiate with bullies.

Ignoring the consensus of the science community, he’s branded environmentalists as “lunatics,” caring more about “a half inch sea rise” than the threat of nuclear war. It seems a favorite term of his, used previously on Democrats critical of DOGE.

He’s even got Israel rattled, calling Hamas leaders with whom he’s been negotiating, “really nice guys.”

His most shameful moment, however, was declaring Ukraine’s valiant Zelensky a “dictator,” resonating Putin’s lies.

My wife, an ardent Trump resistor, who’s joined protest marches and calls the White House daily, tells me Trump suffers from “diarrhea of the mouth,” reviving a once widely used phrase of unknown origin for political loudmouths drawn to impulsive, insensitive utterance. It deserves reviving.

And yet it doesn’t go far enough.

What we have on our hands is a full-blown case of diplomatic dysentery, and America left cleaning up the mess.

Trump’s words are as reckless as his policies, grenades lobbed into the world order, heedless of the consequences.

Mind you, Trump’s dangerous—no less a menace than Putin, Xi, or Kim Yong-Un.

In just a week, he’s managed to offend Israel, embolden Iran, undermine Ukraine, tank markets, and insult allies, in keeping with his penchant for blurting out half-formed nonsense in the syntax of a child.

If political lunacy exists, and it does, Americans increasingly know where to find it.

When the Shades Are Drawn: The Decline of Literary Reading

I’ve been an avid reader of cerebral Virginia Woolf for many years, enjoying not only her novels, but her highly polished essays such as “A Room of Her Own.” Thanks to the Yale Review Archives, I’ve just read “How Should One Read a Book?” (September 1, 2026). It was a different world then, absent of electronic media.

Today, reading is in sharp decline. According to the National Assessment of Educational Progress (February 2025), 33% of eighth graders lack basic reading skills, and only 14% of students read daily. Among adults, just 40% read a literary book.

This trend exacts a cost, as literature cultivates empathy and instills humane values. Active readers are more engaged in civic and cultural life. They contribute to their communities. In contrast, electronic media foster shorter attention spans and weaken intellectual skills (National Endowment for the Arts Assessment).

With AI increasingly doing our cognitive heavy lifting, our ability to think critically is further eroding.

If Woolf believed literature offered us a window into the world, today it seems the shades have been drawn.

—rj

No Other Land: A Story That Must Be Told

The Academy Awards take place tonight, but I may not watch.

I have misgivings, particularly about the industry’s apparent exclusion of films that highlight the Palestinian plight in Israel.

Like many others, I don’t miss theaters. It’s nice just lounging in an easy chair, scrolling through endless streaming choices on a big-screen TV, microwaved popcorn at hand. Traditional studios have taken the hint, shifting their priorities toward digital platforms.

A few times, I’ve ve been tempted to return to the theater to see films like Top Gun: Maverick for its effects, or Oppenheimer, for its brilliant portrayal of a conflicted scientist. But I always hold off, knowing that within months, I can rent or buy the film and avoid the steep ticket prices.

Now comes another film, a documentary No Other Land, winner of the Berlin International Film Festival and the Gotham Award for Best Documentary, now an Oscar nominee.

Yet no American studio dares to sponsor it.

Jointly directed by Palestinian and Israeli filmmakers, No Other Land lays bare the struggles of Masafer Yatta, a West Bank community facing near-daily assaults from Israeli Defense Forces and encroaching settlers who want them gone, the latter, an updated version of the Ku Klux Klan. The IDF claims it needs the land for a military training base.

Two weeks before the film’s Oscar nomination, masked settlers stormed Masafer Yatta, destroying homes. In one instance, caught on film, a resident was shot in the stomach. The filmmakers themselves have been harassed, even shot at, over five years of production.

Palestinian director Basel Adra, a Masafer Yatta resident, has been targeted multiple times. Yet he refuses to leave the land where his family has lived for generations.

His Israeli co-director, Yuval Abraham, told The New York Times:
“I look at Basel, who’s living a much more difficult life than myself, and as long as he’s continuing, I feel like I also have to continue. Even if reality is only changing for the worse, it’s not as if we know what would happen if there is no documentation.”

So far, the film has reached just 23 American theaters. Still, the directors hope for broader exposure to awaken audiences to Israel’s deepening colonization of the West Bank and shift public perception.

But in America, supporting Palestinian rights often invites accusations of antisemitism. Trump has proposed deporting Palestinian student protesters. As for Gaza, he advocates expelling its 2 million inhabitants without a right of return.

Ta-Nehisi Coates’ new book, The Message, devotes half its pages to his time in the West Bank. Some criticize him for omitting Hamas’ attack on Israel and its atrocities. Daniel Berner of The Atlantic calls Coates’s analysis simplistic. Yet liberal Israelis, though a minority, may find his perspective compelling.

Coates focuses on the West Bank, not Gaza. In an interview with New York Magazine, he remarked: “I don’t think I ever, in my life, felt the glare of racism burn stranger and more intense than in Israel.”

As expected, some have labeled him antisemitic. The New Republic sees it differently, calling the backlash a massive media failing: “Coates is not antisemitic to defend Palestinian human rights” (Shiner, October 2, 2024).

If No Other Land makes it to my local theater, I’ll give up my easy chair, venture out to the theater, pay the ticket price, not only to witness a remarkable documentary, undertaken at great risk, but to lend my support to a story centered in truths that must be told.

RJoly

Ambush at the White House: A Hero Humiliated

Zelensky arrived at the White House, mocked openly by Trump for not wearing a suit. Zelensky soon discovered that the anticipated signing of an agreement for access to 50% of Ukraine’s minerals offered no security guarantees. Unwilling to sign, Zelensky was lured into an ambush before a gathered press. If you are defined by the friends you keep, then the reality sinks in: Trump’s friend is Vladimir Putin. In what followed. he lavished praise for the dictator, who he said can be trusted to keep his word.

As usual, Trump couldn’t get the facts straight. Boasting of the US giving Ukraine $340b, the truth is $119b, a not inconsiderable sum, but Europe has given more at $138b.

Zelensky was expelled and the planned celebratory luncheon canceled.

Trump appears ready to cut off all military aid to the besieged nation. Meanwhile, the Russian press has been exuberant in its praise of Trump.

We are in a shameful moment of a fascist government, run by incompetents, trampling on dissent, imperiling our obligations to the marginalized, abandoning its allies, and subordinating itself to corporate oligarchy.

Stand up for Ukraine. Incorporate its flag into your FB profile. Support the boycott movement, the public protests. It isn’t just about Ukraine. It’s coming cuts to Medicaid, the suspension of environmental and health safeguards, the cut off of aid to developing nations.

America is engaged in a war—a moral one. We can win, and with your help, we will.

–RJoly