Saw this extraordinary paragraph, the last one in "Karl
Ove Knausgaard’s “My Struggle" via The New Yorker review linked below. Don't
know if I have the mental stamina to tackle the entire book.
Now I saw his lifeless state. And that there was no
longer any difference between what once had been my father and the table he was
lying on, or the floor on which the table stood, or the wall socket beneath the
window, or the cable running to the lamp beside him. For humans are merely one
form among many, which the world produces over and over again, not only in
everything that lives but also in everything that does not live, drawn in sand,
stone, and water. And death, which I have always regarded as the greatest
dimension of life, dark, compelling, was no more than a pipe that springs a
leak, a branch that cracks in the wind, a jacket that slips off a clothes hanger
and falls to the floor.
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