next By Karl Ove Knausgaard
home page Within the 16th century, Antinous Bellori, a boy of 11, is misplaced in a gloomy woodland and stumbles upon sparkling beings, one wearing a spear, the opposite a flaming torch … This occasion is decisive in Bellori’s lifestyles, and he thereafter devotes himself to the pursuit and examine of angels, the intermediaries of the divine. starting within the backyard of Eden and hovering via to the current, A Time for every little thing reimagines pivotal encounters among people and angels: the glow of the cherubim looking at over Eden; the profound love among Cain and Abel regardless of their changes; Lot’s disgrace in Sodom; Noah’s isolation sooner than the flood; Ezekiel tied to his mattress, prophesying ferociously; the dying of Christ; and the emergence of sensual, mischievous cherubs within the 17th century. Alighting upon those dramatic scenes – from the Bible and past – Knausgaard’s mind's eye takes flight: the result's a blinding show of storytelling at its majestic, spellbinding top. Incorporating and hard culture, legend, and the Apocrypha, those penetrating glimpses possibility chilling questions: can the character of the divine endure switch, and will the immortal perish?
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The water in the stream he’s following is greenish black in the gloom beneath the great conifers, blue and sparkling where the sky opens up above it, shiny white and frothing in the terrace-like falls leading to the little lake in the middle of the valley. Full of adventure, he runs this way and that and, completely impervious to the approach of evening, moves ever deeper into the valley. He sees a wasps’ nest under a branch, he sees a meadow filled with butterflies, he sees a dead cow in a ditch, and the disgusting stink that emerges when he finally manages to push a stick into its rotting belly almost makes him sick.
When, a little while later, it comes gliding into the backwater, he’s there ready to pick it up. He repeats this game a couple of times before he tires of it and continues his journey. He follows a path up the rough mountainside and halts, damp with sweat, at the summit to look out across the plain. The town he comes from, lying in shadow under the mountains on the other side, is hard to see with the bright light in his eyes. The thought that a stranger probably wouldn’t have spotted it fills him with pride, for he knows, he sees.
At the same time there is also sorrow in his eyes. It makes his expression enigmatic. Why is he looking at us like that? He must want something of us. But what? In the early Renaissance, angels began to be portrayed with expressions similar to this, all expressing compassion for man, as if they were only then close enough to comprehend what they saw. But Gabriel’s expression is different, it’s introverted: it isn’t us he’s suffering with, but the angels. He alone has a notion where the path they’re following will lead.