The wonder of the observation is not in what he says but in his willingness to put it on the page. … I tried to make it mine, this was my struggle, because of course I wanted it, but I failed, the longing for something else undermined all my efforts.”Īs it happens, I’ve had this feeling also, not unlike (I suspect) most people who have lived with young kids. This had nothing to do with a lack of desire to wash floors or change diapers but rather with something more fundamental: the life around me was not meaningful. “Everyday life,” he writes, “with its duties and routines, was something I endured, not a thing I enjoyed, nor something that was meaningful or that made me happy. Self-absorbed, expansive, constantly doubling back on itself, “My Struggle” is an attempt to make an epic of the banal facts of the author’s existence, from the distant reaches of childhood to his more recent experience as the father of three (now four) small children, for whom he bears an intense, if ambivalent, love.
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