Now that The End (Harvill Secker), the sixth and final volume of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s mega-novel My Struggle, has appeared in an English translation (by Don Bartlett), we can finally compare Karl Ove’s literary edifice with others of similar ilk—and bulk. The End is a modest 1,160 pages of Nordic self-revelation; the paperback edition weighs in at 1116 grams and the six books collectively occupy 9.5 inches of my shelf space and put a 4.422 kg strain upon the floor joists. These metrics place Knausgaard’s project squarely in the superheavyweight category, where it can jostle aggressively with the likes of Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past (seven novels in three volumes: 6.5 inches and 3.920 kg), Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time (twelve novels: 5.7 inches and 2.045 kg) and—another recent crowd favourite—Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet (5.5 inches; 1.678 kg). To properly assess these behemoths, I think that we need a new literary prize to compete with the Giller, the Booker and the Nobel, the victor to be determined through a series of head-to-head sumo bouts. These bouts might play out as follows. In semi-final #1, Ferrante faces Knausgaard. Ms. Ferrante, lighter on her feet, initially dances rings around the loquacious Norseman, mocking him as Oberyn unwisely taunted the Mountain in Season 4 of Game of Thrones, with (I fear) the same outcome: Ferrante supine, Knausgaard bloodied but triumphant. Semi-final #2 has Powell vs. Proust. The match begins with a ceremonial exchange of national pastries; Proust disdains Powell’s homemade currant bun and distracts Powell with a fresh baked madeleine. This allows Proust to deliver a punishing series of harite, or open hand strikes to Powell’s neck. In the championship bout, Knausgaard, swaddled in a black loincloth, bows deeply to Proust, who is resplendent in an ornate keshō-mawashi. Knausgaard, unexpectedly deferential, appears uncertain as to where to place his hands. He hesitates, allowing Marcel to execute a neat okuritsuridashi, or rear lift-out, tossing Karl Ove from the ring. Fans of Gallic social climbing cheer wildly as Monsieur Proust retains the coveted Emperor’s Cup.
