She gave it to us when we were crossing the road. Here, she said, I thought you might like it. A bleak cover. A range of greys. Stark. Karl Ove Knausgaard’s A Death in the Family. A big book with small type. I find it familiar. It is in the blood. The snow, the bleakness, the taciturn parent, the names. He is writer. A writer juggling a domestic life with a deep ambition to do something good. To do something well. Yes. Keep reading. We’ll see.