Review of The Wolves of Eternity (Morgenstjernen, #2) by Karl Ove Knausgård
As a devoted admirer of Karl Ove Knausgård, I eagerly dove into The Wolves of Eternity, the sequel to The Morning Star, hoping to uncover the same magnetic depth that captivated me in the first volume. Yet, from the very first page, I found myself questioning if I had accidentally opened a different book. With its vast expanse—800 pages, compared to the 666 of its predecessor—this sequel felt like a curious deviation, almost an entirely separate universe. What would Knausgård deliver this time? As I ventured further, I grappled with an unsettling realization: The Wolves of Eternity felt more like a dull echo than a resonant continuation.
The plot centers around two primary characters, Syvert and Alevtina, with only a minor appearance from a writer character toward the end. Strangely, both protagonists had no connection to the rich cast of the first book, leading me to wonder where the familiar elements were hiding. For the first 450 pages, we are plunged into Syvert’s world in Norway, followed by Alevtina’s Russian storyline, only to flip back and forth between them. Throughout these encounters, both characters remained largely unlikable—Syvert came across as a bit of a charmless oaf, while Alevtina’s emotional volatility rendered her frustrating to follow.
What struck me most was how starkly Knausgård’s writing here felt soggy where it was once crisp and vibrant. His ability to create moral dilemmas and highlight existential weight seemed absent in this installment. I often found myself yearning for the gothic horror aspects and rich character dilemmas that defined The Morning Star. Even the much-anticipated connecting thread between the two characters didn’t surface until a considerable 700 pages in, leaving me feeling exhausted rather than intrigued.
Then, there’s the translation by Martin Aitken. What felt like an odd choice to translate into a dialect that sounded distractingly cockney left me baffled. How did Knausgård’s Norwegian and Russian settings lose their gravitas to such a tonal shift? It’s a perplexing decision that detracted from the narrative and turned Syvert into a caricature reminiscent of a character from Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange. This misfire skewed my perspective on the book, making it hard to engage.
Nevertheless, my love for Knausgård compels me to carry on to the third installment, albeit with cautious optimism. Although The Wolves of Eternity felt like a tedious slog, perhaps future developments will redeem this valley—creating a narrative star that can illuminate the path forward.
In conclusion, I wouldn’t readily recommend this book unless you’re an ardent fan, prepared for the hiccups and lulls it presents. But for those who appreciated The Morning Star, it might be worth persevering, hoping for that inevitable redemption. For me, it was an exploration of frustration amidst a sea of bloated prose. However, I still hold onto that tiny thread of hope as I await the next chapter in Knausgård’s vision, yearning for that crisp, meaningful engagement to return.
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