[A]t the beginning of April, mum went away for the weekend, to visit a friend in Oslo, and I was left alone at home…
The countryside had not yet emerged from the strange interlude between winter and spring when the fields are bare and wet, the sky is grey and the trees leafless, nothing in themselves, everything charged with what will be. Perhaps it has already started to happen, unseen in the darkness, for isn’t the air slowly warming up in the forest? Is there not scattered birdsong coming from the trees after these long months of silence, which had been broken only by the occasional hoarse screams of a crow or a magpie? Had spring not stolen in, like someone wanting to surprise their friends? Wasn’t it there, ready any day now to explode into a blaze of green, spewing out its leaves and insects everywhere?
That was the feeling I had, spring was in the offing. And perhaps that was why I was so restless. – Karl Ove Knaussgaard, Dancing in the dark (2010/tr. Don Bartlett 2015)
(After resisting for a few weeks, I’m back reading Knaussgaard. I thought this fourth volume of My Struggle was the last available in English, but I read at the weekend that the fifth has just come out. There’s the sixth to come, Don: don’t tarry.)
I don’t agree about winter trees being nothing in themselves. I like them like that. But I agree absolutely about how just now (assuming we are a month ahead of Norway) the demand for spring makes itself felt, even if the supply of spring, apart from winter bulbs and some odd dark blue croci, is limited to a sprig of flowers on the hawthorns and the flowering cherries.
It was 1˚ again this morning in Brussels. But still, we feel, we have a right to expect the spring.
(Gorky Park, Moscow, April 2013)