Finished the first volume of Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle over the weekend. If you like Proust, you’ll like this. If you think Proust was a neurotic whiner who needed a stiff drink and some lessons in being human (and you don’t like endlessly reading about such a person’s existence), then I recommend you steer clear.
I found the book strikingly honest and intimate. And not in a beautiful way. It’s an experience you virtually never have when reading — of seeing someone laid so bare that it’s hard to even know how to paint a picture of the person in your head. To feel like you know someone like that is rare.