By Karl Ove Knausgaard
Within the 16th century, Antinous Bellori, a boy of 11, is misplaced in a gloomy wooded area and stumbles upon gleaming beings, one sporting a spear, the opposite a flaming torch … This occasion is decisive in Bellori’s lifestyles, and he thereafter devotes himself to the pursuit and learn of angels, the intermediaries of the divine. starting within the backyard of Eden and hovering via to the current, A Time for every thing reimagines pivotal encounters among people and angels: the glow of the cherubim staring at over Eden; the profound love among Cain and Abel regardless of their variations; Lot’s disgrace in Sodom; Noah’s isolation ahead of 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 reveal of storytelling at its majestic, spellbinding top. Incorporating and demanding culture, legend, and the Apocrypha, those penetrating glimpses danger chilling questions: can the character of the divine endure switch, and will the immortal perish?
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II. Title. 82'38 – dc22 2009013489 Archipelago Books 232 Third St. com Cover art by Giotto, detail from Lamentation, 1305 This publication was made possible with financial support from Lannan Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency, and NORLA (Norwegian Literature Abroad). A Time for Everything Contents A Time for Everything Coda ANTINOUS had been born in 1551 at Ardo, a small mountain town in the far north of Italy, where in all likelihood he remained until he began to study in 1565.
Nor yet the unreasonableness of doing so in such utter darkness as this. One does not argue with joy, one surrenders to it, and after his first instant of doubt, he begins the steep descent into the ravine. If he were certain they were well-disposed, he might have called down to them, but this he doesn’t do; on the contrary, he’s careful to make as little noise as possible. Whenever he dislodges a stone and it begins to roll down, he stays still for a while before continuing. The upper reaches of the slope are steep, in several places he has to search for hand- or footholds on the mountain, but on the last bit the gradient relents, and soon he’s standing down by the riverbank, surrounded by the noise of the waterfall, whose white curtains he can just glimpse in the darkness to his right.
A sob racks him, and the stream of feelings that follow no longer meets any resistance but wells up unchecked inside him, until it fills him entirely and he throws himself weeping to the ground. His thoughts, too, dissolve and merge into the spasms. He lies there without noticing anything apart from his own despair, locked within his own darkness, and where no time exists, for when his tears subside and his breathing at last returns to its normal rhythm, he has no idea how long he’s been gone. It’s as if he’s slept, he thinks, and then woken up in a different place.