Seth Austin's Reviews > The Morning Star

Here's the problem with a star rating system: it reduces a complex, interpersonal experience - in this case, between Knausgaard and myself - into a middling, "meh", C-grading. In reality, my response to this novel is a bit more nuanced than the "fine" those three stars suggest (or at least, I'd like to think so). I've come away with a number of strongly positive reactions to particular aspects of the book, with just as many criticisms to complement them.

On the one hand, Knausgaard's talent for establishing visual and sensory scenes is second to none. His setpieces are living, breathing spaces which the reader's mind can gently relax into without strain. Whether instinctual or acquired, his intuition for perfect, pithy descriptions are sublime; I'd happily read his shopping list for a hundred pages if he imbued it with the same colour.

That being said, one can only get so far on setting and scenery alone, which is where my criticism begins to show teeth. When I purchased The Morning Star I was given no indication that what I was signing on for was in fact the new cycle of novels; yes, a series. If the italicised passage from page 637 is any indication, we can comfortably expect 4-5 in total. Knowing he has several thousand pages to work with, Knausgaard has clearly unburdened himself of any responsibility to deliver closure to the reader. Normally, I don't take issue with leaving a story open-ended but in this case, it feels as though he's only just delivered the set-up, with no hint of an ending or even a vague destination in sight. What that leaves me with after concluding The Morning Star is (to quote The Guardian's Andrew Anthony), a meandering "shaggy dog" story; an aimless, multifocal yarn across 666 pages. That's a sizeable slice of time to ask of a reader, especially when their attention is rationed across 9 different plotlines. My frustration was further compounded in the declining quarter of the book when it became apparent that the lion's share of these narrative threads were left to trail off, feeling as though the characters had hardly introduced themselves before giving an Irish goodbye. Put simply: excellent set-up, nonexistent conclusion.

In reflection on the novel as a whole, my one-word reaction is "disappointed", but for positive reasons. The concept driving the narrative - to whatever extent one could identify it - is deeply intriguing, and probes me in the same part of my mind (or... soul?) that clings to the myths I was taught as a young lad. I don't think we ever quite shed our faiths and superstitions entirely, no matter how far we stray from their source. The characters Knausgaard has established the foundation for are complexly realised, even if they occasionally regress back to the mean they were clearly drawn from: himself. Moreover, I'm sufficiently invested to want to see this story through further, though I won't go so far as to say I'm duty-bound to its conclusion. For these reasons, I'm disappointed he didn't dig deeper into his own story here and is now asking me to wait another... year? two years? until I'll have the opportunity to explore it further myself. I resent him for that.

This was not economically written and assumes of his audience a guaranteed commitment to continue with him for as long as wants to drag it out. You've got me for Part 2 Karl, but don't get comfortable if you pull this shit again.