It’s been ten years since my Father died. He called on a Saturday morning when I was sorting stamps to tell me that he had gone to the emergency room the night before.
It surprises people – even people who have read the books – that Knausgaard’s My Struggle is meant to be fiction. Novels.
Burdened with familial chores and feelings of mediocrity, he finally loses the taste for writing literature and searches for something to slog through.
Here’s a chestnut: Do only one thing at a time. Good advice. I’m less and less convinced that multitasking adds value to anything.
How many things do you miss every day by just not noticing?