Boyhood Island (My Struggle 3) by Karl Ove Knausgaard, Eduardo Ballerini, Wholestory
By Karl Ove Knausgaard, Eduardo Ballerini, Wholestory Audiobooks
Childhood is exhilarating and terrifying. For the younger Karl Ove, new homes, periods and associates are met with manic pleasure and creeping dread. Adults occupy godlike positions of energy, benevolent when it comes to his doting mom, tyrannical in terms of his merciless father.
Knausgaard describes a time during which victories and defeats are felt keenly and each try at self-definition is exasperating. this can be an audiobook approximately relations, reminiscence and the way we by no means turn into relatively what we got down to be.
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Extra resources for Boyhood Island (My Struggle 3)
The way small, thin, green stems had almost immediately begun to shoot up from it: fragile and seemingly alone in the new black expanse, and then the rampant multiplication of them the year after until the slope was completely covered with thick, luxuriant shrubbery. Small trees, grass, foxgloves, dandelions, ferns and bushes eradicating what earlier had been such a clear division between road and forest. Up the hill, along the pavement with its narrow brick kerb, and, oh, the water that trickled and flowed and streamed down there when it rained!
If Leif Tore was known for being brave, Geir was known for being wild. Not by nature, because had it been up to him he would have stayed at home drawing and pottering about to his heart’s content all day long, but when he was challenged. Perhaps he was a bit gullible. That summer he and I had built a cart, with a great deal of help from his father, and when it was finished I got him to push me around, just by saying it would make him strong. Gullible but also foolhardy, sometimes all boundaries ceased to exist for him, then he was capable of anything.
We ran down the slope. On Karlsen’s lawn Anne Lene, Kent Arne’s little sister, stood watching us. She was wearing a safety harness; it was attached to a rein so that she wouldn’t run off. Her mother’s red car was parked in the drive. A light shone from a wall lamp. Outside Gustavsen’s house Trond slowed down. ‘I’m sure Leif Tore would like to join us,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’s at home,’ I said. ‘We can ask anyway,’ Trond said, walking between the two brick gateposts, which were not hung with any gates and therefore subject to my father’s ridicule, and into the drive.