Karl Ove Knausgaard’s auto-fictional epic, My Struggle (2009-11), was followed by several works of non - fiction. Mining his recall rather than his imagination, he bypassed the need for invention. The Morning Star, then, feels like an event – his return to the novel, huge and self-consciously serious. Gone is Knausgaard himself as subject and device. Instead, a sprawl of narrators, clustered around a heavyweight fictional event: the appearance of a new star.
Initially, Knausgaard’s patented accretion of detail feels enriched with a new and welcome undertow: unnamed dread. The atmosphere is still and eerily fragile. Something seismic is just off-frame, advancing. The narrator, Arne, rounds a corner in his car and sees first a crawling mass of crabs and then, above him, the fiercely bright new star, towards which…
