Karl Ove Knausgaard is the Norwegian author of My Struggle, an acclaimed autobiographical novel (the sixth and final volume will be published in English in September) that has been compared to Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. He is also the author of the Seasons Quartet. The first two parts, Autumn and Winter, were encyclopedias of the material world, written for his then unborn daughter. The third, Spring (Harvill Secker, £16.99), out this week, records an April day in the girl’s early life.

When we last spoke three years ago, you said you’d become bored with your style of writing. Is the Seasons Quartet a move away from that style?

I wanted to do something different from My Struggle – be much more objective, not introspective. I wanted these books to be about the world outside. There is hardly any psychology or inner turmoil. I wanted them to be happier, to get away from everything that I associate with My Struggle.

They contain stunning descriptions and beautiful passages but you say you’re not interested in writing good sentences. What do you mean by that?

I want to reach emotions, to establish a presence in the book that the reader can relate to. For that, the beauty of a sentence can be disturbing. I’m not against a good sentence, but it’s not what I’m trying to achieve.

In Spring, you describe the pressures placed on your marriage by your ex-wife Linda’s depression, and your resentment that she was not taking responsibility for herself. Many writers would be fearful of being perceived as callous. Was that a concern for you?

I wanted to describe how something like that, a heavy depression, affects the surroundings, thinking, emotions, everything. You have to know that these are not correct thoughts, but that’s what comes up when you’re confronted with a situation like that. It’s important to be open about these things, not to be ashamed. She, of course, read it, and said it was OK, but she had already made a radio documentary about being bipolar, which is brilliant.

Your characters are real people. How do you maintain a keep out sign when you’ve invited readers in to your world?



I do think readers should respect my privacy but I don’t get angry when I get personal questions because I understand why. To me, these are very much novels, and life is very different. There was so much more than I’ve written in the books. But I opened up something personal and I have to take the consequences.

Philip Roth used to quote Czeslaw Milosz: “When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Do you think there’s a truth in that?

Yes, I agree. That applies to all kinds of writing, not just autobiographical. Having a writer in the family is a curse – for the family. I do feel more or less guilty when I’m writing. This is very much about my children and I have a responsibility to protect them, which is much bigger now they’re older than they were in My Struggle. The last thing I want to do is exploit them. But this book is also a gift to my daughter. Maybe she’ll appreciate it when she’s 40. I didn’t understand my parents until I was 40.

When you’re writing you want the truth, and you don’t want to be apologetic in any way

A recurring theme in your writing is the issue of being a good person. Is this heightened, and complicated, by writing about your life?

Since I was a boy it’s been an important question to me. I always thought I was good. The shocking thing is to discover from other people’s versions that I’m ruthless or neglectful or not empathetic. But I’m trying to be as good as I can be. That’s not a joke. It’s true. And writing is very much an escape from everything, a place where I’m free. There has to be something ruthless, destructive about it. When I was younger, I wondered if it was possible to be a good person and a writer. And now is it possible to be good writer and a good father? It’s more important for me at the moment to be a good father.

You write that self-deception is the most human of all characteristics, a survival mechanism. Do you write in an attempt to combat self-deception or is writing another means of practising it?

In my experience, when you’re writing you want the truth, and you don’t want to be apologetic in any way. But there is something in writing, the complexity of it, that works against that aim. So it’s both at the same time. Recently I had someone writing about me, and I just couldn’t accept it. It’s not published yet – maybe it will be. I couldn’t accept that version but it’s true for that person. It was very hard to realise that that was a possible way of looking at me. I learned much more about myself reading that than from writing from the inside. It was very uncomfortable.

Where are you living now?

I’m living half the time in London, half in Sweden. The week I have the children I’m in Sweden and the week I don’t I’m in London with the love of my life. It’s the perfect combination.

What was the last really great book you read?

I’m reading now The Man Without Qualities [by Robert Musil] for the first time. I’ve started it about 20 times. I’m not very far but it’s a masterpiece. I enjoy every sentence. That never happens any more.

Which novelists and nonfiction writers working today do you most admire?

In nonfiction, Svetlana Alexievich, who won the Nobel prize. I read the Chernobyl book many years ago – absolutely fantastic. Orlando Figes; his book A People’s Tragedy about the Russian revolution was a really outstanding history book. I like Peter Handke a lot. I have to mention Salman Rushdie. I’d been raised on this minimalistic sparse prose and then he came with his explosion of language – that was very important to me in my 20s. I love The Satanic Verses. Also Ian McEwan. I still read him with great pleasure. The Child in Time, it was like the penny dropping when I read that. Of more recent writers, I very much like Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts. It’s very hardcore.

Which book would you give to a young person?

I like to give Ursula K Le Guin’s Earthsea books, especially the first one. My mother gave me that when I was 10 or 11. It was a turning point that book. I’ve read it many times.

Which books do you feel are most overrated?

I think contemporary fiction is extremely overrated, but I can’t start to name, because I’m also a part of the hype. I think there are maybe one or two great books every 10 years. I never really trust reviews.

What do you plan to read next?

And Quiet Flows the Don by Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov. And I’m very curious about David Grossman’s A Horse Walks Into a Bar. And then Emmanuel Carrère’s The Kingdom. I’ve read 40 pages. I think it’s brilliant.

• Spring by Karl Ove Knausgaard is published by Harvill Secker (£16.99). To order a copy for £12.99 go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99