The Morning Star

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

  Would that in the silence you might forget yourself, forget what you yourself are called, your own name, the famous name, the lowly name, the insignificant name, in order in silence to pray to God, “Hallowed be your name!” Would that in silence you might forget yourself, your plans, the great, all-encompassing plans, or the limited plans concerning your life and its future, in order in silence to pray to God, “Your kingdom come!” Would that you might in silence forget your will, your willfulness, in order in silence to pray to God, “Your will be done!”

  these were not unfamiliar thoughts to me, apart from the fact that I would never have put God into that equation. Abandoning oneself to the Divine, giving up the self, was of course a well-known component of any religion, which had given rise to systems of prayer and worship and meditation, something that had never interested me, seeming to me to be a simple matter of suggestion, a mere trick of the Low Church. But Kierkegaard’s abandonment was different. The silence in which one might forget oneself was like the silence of the lily and the bird, they were our teachers, but also like the silence of the forest and the silence of the sea. Even when the sea rages loudly, he wrote, it is nonetheless silent, and these words I read as the sea raged loudly outside the house in which I sat. The forest keeps silent; even when it whispers, he wrote, and I listened to the forest as it whispered, and to the silence in its whispering, and I knew that silence, for the clamor of my own inner life resounded so clearly against it. When I was with others, I never heard it, the clamor then being everywhere, generated by our every will, our every plan, our every ambition, our every quest for pleasure, but when I was out walking here, in the silence that is here, I heard it.

  In a strange way, what I read coincided with what I was. I read about the raging sea as the sea raged, I read about the whispering forest as the forest whispered, and when I read that to pray was not to speak, but to become silent, that only in silence could God’s kingdom be sought, God’s kingdom came.

  God’s kingdom was the moment.

  The trees, the forest, the sea, the lily, the bird, all existed in the moment. To them, there was no such thing as future or past. Nor any fear or terror.

  That was the first turning point. The second came when I read what followed: What happens to the bird does not concern it.

  It was the most radical thought I had ever known. It would free me from all pain, all suffering. What happens to me does not concern me.

  This required absolute faith and absolute abandonment to God, as the lily of the field and the bird of the sky exemplified. Even in deepest sorrow, with so frightful a tomorrow, the bird was unconditionally joyful. Sorrow and tomorrow did not concern it, but were given over to God.

  To be obedient as the grass when bent by the wind, I thought, and looked up: outside, the storm had abated, all was dark and still; the faint light of the moon, reflected by the snow, made the smooth rock of the shore seem as though it were levitating.

  God’s kingdom was here.

  And I existed for God.

  * * *

  —

  In the half-year that had passed since that night, those thoughts had been like a place to which I could return. It was as if the insights I’d gained there continually needed renewing in order to be maintained; I fell so easily back into old ways. I read extensively in the Gospels and saw everything as if in a new light. The light of freedom and the unbidden, and the light of God’s kingdom. When Jesus said, “If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple,” I understood what he meant, he was preaching the message of total freedom, disconnection from every relationship. And when he said, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head,” what he was talking about was disconnection from every place. Jesus lived in the open, or aspired to live in the open. The idea of cutting all ties to other people, to one’s own past and to all places, may sound self-centered and egoistic, but is in fact the opposite, for only thereby, only as but-a-human, do all humans become equal, only then may all be seen for what they are: but-a-human-humans. And the following brief passage in Luke, “And he said unto another, Follow me. But he said, Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father. Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God. And another also said, Lord I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house. And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God,” underlined the radicality of the message of Jesus and reinforced the importance of freedom for the coming of the kingdom of God. No past, no future, only a vast now, and in its light God assumed form.

  That was the light I saw that night in the summer house.

  Not the work of creation itself, not the crooked pines with their tassels of needles, not the clear, burning fire and the crackling logs as they gradually turned into ash and cinders. Not the stars that shimmered in the dark and unendingly still night sky, not the ice-mantled rock of the shore. Not the foxes that lived in the forest, with their thick coats and wily-looking faces, not the big gulls that screeched and soared over land and sea, in their white-and-gray plumage, with their yellow beaks and black, beady eyes. Not the cod that lay motionless above the shallow banks off the islets, yellowy-brown and white, and utterly silent. Not the kelp that grew beneath the water, nor the clusters of blue-black mussels that clacked against the rocks in the pull of the waves. Nothing of what existed, but its consequence: in this, God emerged into being.

  * * *

  —

  I had thought about this all through the summer, and read accordingly, though of course without ambition of coming to any conclusion, for God was not something firm that allowed itself to be easily grasped. But, I thought as I stood steering the boat through the strait, the town looming up ahead, at least I knew what to look for, and in which direction to look. In the social realm, only the social was visible, the human sphere was everything there, even animals and trees vanished from view, and that was why true religion turned away from the social. People are created not in, but for the image of God, as Hans Jonas wrote. And only he who hates his father and mother, his wife and children and brethren and sisters, and his own life too, will be able to see it.

  Even in the wind of motion, the air in the strait felt like an oven, so it was no wonder the water close to shore was teeming with people, their pale little heads bobbing like seals, thin white bodies wading out or clambering back.

  The colorful array of towels spread out on the beach.

  Ahead, the details of the town began gradually to emerge. I saw people in the streets and seated at the sidewalk cafes, carrier bags gleaming in the sunshine, even the tiny white dots of the ice creams some of them held in their hands.

  Ten minutes until the bus arrived. I’d be just in time, I thought, slowing down as the little ferry came chugging from the jetty, on its way to one of the outlying islands. I opened up the throttle again after it had gone, slowing once more a couple of minutes later as I entered the wide channel leading into the harbor itself.

  I found a space, moored and went into town.

  Maybe I could have a beer when he got his ice cream?

  One beer never hurt anyone.

  There was a church bazaar on across the road and I looked up at the church building itself with its red-brick walls, its green copper roof and copper spire, and it struck me that I’d always overlooked it, taken it for granted. I’d certainly never been inside.

  But it would have to wait. It was hardly the kind of thing a young boy would be looking forward to.

  The clock on the tower told me I still had a couple of minutes. I crossed the road and hurried the last bit of the way to the bus station. A big, sleek coach, white with red and blue writing on the sides, came gliding in
just as I got there. That would be it.

  It pulled into the bay, the doors opened and people began to file out, most gathering at the side to wait for their luggage, others walking directly away into the town, free men and women.

  I couldn’t see Viktor anywhere.

  I went over to the huddle of passengers where the driver had now opened the luggage compartment and begun to unload the bags.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Is this the bus from Oslo?”

  He didn’t reply, his upper body momentarily consumed inside the cavernous compartment as he tried to extricate a stroller. His white shirt was soaked through with sweat all the way up his back.

  “It’s from Oslo, yes,” a young man said.

  “Thanks,” I said, and went to the door, up the steps and into the bus to see if he was there. Coming from the bright light outside, I could barely see a thing at first. A funny taste filled my mouth, it reminded me of a particular apple variety, only then it was gone, my eyes adjusted to the half-light and I went up the aisle.

  Viktor was sitting at the back, his knees wedged against the seat in front. He didn’t look at me as I came toward him, but stared harshly out of the window.

  “Hi, Viktor! Good to see you!” I said.

  He ignored me.

  “Have you had a good trip?”

  No answer.

  A slight curl of his mouth told me he wasn’t completely indifferent.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  I touched his shoulder.

  “Have you brought any luggage? If you have, we’ll need to get it. We’re going by boat to the summer house. It’ll be fun. I was thinking we could get an ice cream first.”

  “I don’t want an ice cream,” he said, flashing me a glance.

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “But we need to get off the bus now, come on.”

  “I’m not coming,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  “It’s only for a few days,” I said. “You’ll be home again before you know it.”

  “I want to go home now.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you can’t, buddy.”

  “I’m not your buddy.”

  “All right,” I said. “But you can’t sit here. Everyone else has gone now.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he said.

  “That’s enough, Viktor,” I said. “I won’t have you swearing. It’s not nice.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” he said. “And you’re a dick.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said. “I’m your dad.”

  “Fuckwit,” he said.

  “Viktor,” I said, “don’t call me that.”

  “Fuckwit,” he said. “Fucking dick.”

  “That’s enough now,” I said.

  His eyes stared straight ahead. Then, a smile passed fleetingly over his face before his hardened expression returned.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Was he really that wicked?

  I’d thought he was upset and angry at his mother having left him. But then he wouldn’t have smiled, surely?

  “Come on,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  Outside, the driver drew himself upright. There were only a couple of suitcases and bags in front of him now.

  “Viktor, we’ve got to go now,” I said. “You know full well we do. You can’t stay here.”

  He said nothing, but sat without moving, staring out of the window.

  I took his arm gently and tugged.

  “Come on, Viktor,” I said.

  He looked down at my hands.

  “Cunt,” he said.

  A sudden rage welled inside me.

  “That’s ENOUGH!” I said. “You’re coming with me, NOW!”

  I dragged him to his feet. He gripped the seat in front and clung to it.

  “HELP!” he shouted. “HELP!”

  Just then, the driver came up the steps at the front of the bus. I let go of Viktor.

  “What’s going on here?” the driver said, coming toward us.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “My son here refuses to come with me, but we’ll sort it out.”

  “Viktor, wasn’t it?” he said. “You know I promised your mother I’d look after you? You’d better do as your dad says.”

  “He’s not my dad,” Viktor said.

  “You heard me,” said the driver. “I promised your mum. So you go with your dad now and pick up your luggage out there before someone runs off with it.”

  “OK,” said Viktor after a moment’s hesitation, and stood up without looking at me.

  I followed him out and we went to where the luggage had been left. A small carry-on suitcase and a little rucksack.

  “If you take the rucksack, I’ll take the suitcase. OK?” I said.

  “You can take them both,” he said.

  “All right, no problem,” I said, as I swung the rucksack over my shoulder and picked up the suitcase.

  How come he did what the driver said, when he wouldn’t listen to me? I wondered as we started to walk, Viktor keeping a couple of paces in front of me. Being his father presumably meant I was someone he felt safe with, thereby allowing him to feel he could take things out on me, whereas the driver was a stranger. Moreover, the man’s black trousers and white shirt looked a bit like a uniform, which automatically instilled a form of respect.

  I ought to have taken him by the hand and led the way. After all, he was only ten. But I held back in case he rejected me again.

  “How about an ice cream?” I said. “It’s so hot!”

  “I said I didn’t want one,” he said. “Are you deaf?”

  “Right, we’ll go straight to the boat, then,” I said.

  He was wearing a pair of green shorts of a kind that looked more usual for an adult, and a yellow T-shirt with a surfing print across the chest. His skin was as white as chalk and only highlighted by his mother’s choice of colors for him, I thought. His arms and legs were thin, his head rather small, eyes narrow, his lips, too, narrow and tight. He never looked anyone in the eye, and when his mother and I had still been together I’d suggested we should perhaps take him to a specialist and have him examined, it being a sign of autism.

  She hit the roof, so we never did.

  But there was definitely some issue there.

  He stared at the ground as we walked, his hands in his pockets. When we got to the crossing, he glanced up at me and I was relieved to see a trace of uncertainty in him, regardless of everything else.

  “Cross over here,” I said.

  I stayed a couple of paces behind him. Then, so that he wouldn’t have to reveal his uncertainty to me again, I said:

  “Turn left down to the jetty a bit farther on. Can you see where I mean?”

  Outside the old post office, I recognized a face coming toward me. It was Tore. He lifted his hand in a wave as he saw me. Despite the heat, he was sporting a pair of long black trousers and a black T-shirt, his eyes hidden behind big, black sunglasses. A bag hung from his shoulder.

  “There’s a turn-up,” he said.

  “Long time no see,” I said. “How’s things?”

  I saw my own reflection in his sunglasses and wished he would take them off.

  “Oh, you know,” he said. “You?”

  “Good,” I said.

  Viktor had come to a halt and was standing a bit farther away pretending not to know me.

  “Still out in the summer house?” Tore said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Just came in to pick up my son.”

  “I didn’t know you had one,” he said. There was surprise in his voice, but as long as I couldn’t see his eyes it was hard to tell if he was having me on or not.

  “Didn’t you?” I said. “He’s ten years old now.�
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  “Just goes to show,” he said. “You never said.”

  “Didn’t I?” I said. “He lives with his mother most of the time, so he’s not here that often.”

  I looked at Viktor.

  “Hey, Viktor, come and say hello to a friend of mine!”

  He stayed where he was, as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “He’s a bit shy,” I said. “Anyway, what about you? Been up to much?”

  “Not really. Still slogging away at the opera.”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten about that!” I said. “It’ll be nearly finished now, surely?”

  He nodded.

  “And there’s a decent chance of it running at the arts center in the spring.”

  “Wow!” I said. “I’ll look forward to that. Listen, I’ve got to get going. But look after yourself, and see you again soon, I hope!”

  “Yes, likewise,” he said, walking away as I turned toward Viktor again.

  “Who was that?” he said.

  “His name’s Tore,” I said, and smiled at him, glad that he’d said something without being asked. “An old friend of mine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him about me?” he said.

  He looked up at me.

  A chill went through me.

  “Of course I told him,” I said, starting to walk. “He was only joking. He’s never seen you before, that’s all.”

  “It didn’t sound like he was joking,” said Viktor.

  “Well, he was,” I said. “Come on, the boat’s just over there.”

  Wasn’t there something I could distract him with?

  He didn’t want an ice cream.

  A Coke or a lemonade?

  But that would mean sitting down somewhere, which would give him time to reflect and perhaps ask more questions.

  No, the boat would be best.

  In my mind’s eye, I suddenly saw myself walking along the jetty with a carrier bag in each hand, bending forward to put them down in the boat.

  I’d forgotten to do the shopping. There was no food for him out there.