It was all too easy to lose oneself in routine and fractured sleep. The frantic grocery trip, unmade bed, summer clothes pile nearby and yet, when I picked up My Struggle to read before bed, I realized not for the first time that Knausgaard relishes in such story depictions. He explores the narrative edge as if it were breathing air, or life as it were, into a deflated balloon testing the strength of a flexible surface. Maybe it wasn’t like a balloon at all but a hyperreal snapshot of a writer depicted in the middle of life. Either way, his writing felt microscopic, in much the same way I had examined the past year.