By Karl Ove Knausgaard
Within the 16th century, Antinous Bellori, a boy of 11, is misplaced in a gloomy woodland and stumbles upon sparkling beings, one sporting a spear, the opposite a flaming torch … This occasion is decisive in Bellori’s existence, 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 gazing over Eden; the profound love among Cain and Abel regardless of their changes; Lot’s disgrace in Sodom; Noah’s isolation ahead of the flood; Ezekiel tied to his mattress, prophesying ferociously; the loss of life 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 most sensible. Incorporating and demanding culture, legend, and the Apocrypha, those penetrating glimpses threat chilling questions: can the character of the divine endure swap, and will the immortal perish?
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The first thing he must do is find a safe place to sleep. He gets to his feet and begins to walk along the ridge while inspecting the terrain in front of him. After a few minutes he catches sight of a ledge protruding a little way down the mountainside. When he clambers down to it, he finds to his joy that it forms the roof of a deep, narrow cave, which actually widens out at the back, where it almost becomes like a small room. Here he can sleep securely. But not comfortably: the ground is hard and uneven, and after trying various positions, he crawls out again to collect some conifer branches from the trees he saw growing on the mountainside below the mouth of the cave.
They grab Lot, haul him into the house, and shut the door behind them, while at the same time striking the crowd blind so that it can’t pursue them any further. It almost looks as if they’re filled with wrath on Lot’s behalf. Presumably their sympathy for him must have grown during the course of the evening, they must have sat there smiling to themselves at his futile attempts to conceal his motives from them. ” they tell him. ” Lot does what he’s told, he goes out and speaks to his sons-in-law, but he lacks credibility, they think he’s joking.
After a while he gets up, pulls out a worm he’s been carrying in his pocket, and threads it on the hook. Even with half its body impaled, it tries to wriggle free. Its pale pink color and the small grooves on its skin make it look a bit like a finger, he thinks, as he studies it for a moment before clasping the writhing end and impaling that on the hook as well. Then he casts it out onto the water. When, half an hour later, he hasn’t had a single bite, he walks a few hundred yards upriver to the next fishing place.