The 6 part biographical series "My struggle" is seen as a modern masterpiece, like Proust.
Part 3 of "My struggle" by Karl Ove Knausgaard is "Boyhood island".
This describes the author's school years.
I'm amazed by the sexual freedom he describes in some paragraphs. Today this would be illegal and would lead to many problems.
It is a bit weird but also moving and melancholy.
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Then we went through the doors, and I never saw my class-
mates again.
But it wasn’t quite over. That evening there was to be a class
party at Unni’s. Some of the girls met early that afternoon to
get everything ready, and at around six the rest of us cycled over.
The party was held in the garden and in the cellar, and as the
summer night fell over the hills and all the red roofs of the houses
on the estate glinted in the light of the setting sun the party
slowly began to degenerate, even though no one was drinking.
A year’s secret thoughts and desires began to stir. It was simply
in the air. Hands wandered under sweaters, not as part of an
assault or any brutality, but close by, among the lilac bushes in
the garden, amid hot panting, mouths met, mouths kissed, and
then some of the girls took off their tops, they walked around
with their breasts bobbing, it was a kind of early-puberty orgy
which had been slowly building up steam, and the very same
girls who only one month earlier had said they didn’t like me
offered themselves to me, one after the other, they sat on my
lap, they kissed me, they rubbed their breasts against my face.
The hierarchy the girls had been placed in, with some slowly
climbing during autumn and others falling, had no significance
here, it didn’t make any difference who it was, I pressed my face
against their soft white breasts, kissed their dark erect nipples,
ran my hands over their thighs and between their legs, and they
didn’t say no, there wasn’t a no in their mouths on this night,
instead they leaned forward and kissed me, their eyes were warm
and dark but also surprised, as mine must have been, is it really
us doing this?
I haven’t seen any of them since that summer, and if I search
for them on the Net to see what they look like or how life has
treated them, there are no hits. They don’t belong to that class
there, they belong to the class of blue- or white-collar parents
who grew up outside the centre and who have presumably
remained outside the centre of everything but their own lives.
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