No, he isn’t Proust, and no, we don’t think he should win the Nobel Prize. But this is pretty good, don’t you think?
What we did most often was to go out in search of new places or to one of the places we had already found. It might be a big old oak with a hollow trunk; a deep pool in a river; a cellar in an unfinished house that was full of water; the concrete foundations of the enormous bridge pylon or the first few metres of the thick cable stays that ran from the bottom of an anchoring in the forest up to the top and which you could climb; a ramshackle shed with planks that was slippery and dark with decay between Lake Tjenna and the road on the other side, which so far was the furthest outpost of our explorations, we had never ventured any further; the two dumped cars; the little pool with the three islands no bigger than tufts of grass, one almost completely covered by a tree, and where the water was so deep and black, even though it was right next to a road embankment; the white crystalline rock from which you could hammer small chunks, beside the path to the Fina station; the boat factory on the other side of Tremoya Bridge beyond Gamle Tybakken, all the factory buildings there, the shells of the boats, the rusty block and tackle on the machines, the smell of oil and tar and salty water which was so good. (p. 71-2)
And so is this:
Slowly buildings disappeared, it was as if the houses lost their hold on us and fell by the wayside one by one, like children fell off the enormous inner tire someone had roped to a boat earlier that summer. As the boat speed increased only the tube was left. I saw glinting sandbanks along the sides of the river, green clad hills rising more and more steeply, the occasional enormous bare mountainside in every shade of grey, with some flame-red pine trees on top. I saw rapids and waterfalls, lakes and planes, everything bathed in the glow of the clear bright sun which, as we drove, had risen higher and higher in the sky. The road was narrow, and it gently and unobtrusively followed all the countryside’s dips and climbs, curves and bends, with trees like a wall on both sides in some places, towering over everything in others, in sudden and expected vantage points. (p. 253)
Karl Ove Knausgaard, Boyhood Island (Harvill Secker, 2014).