Despite all the laudatory opinions and flattering criticism, I hardly expected much else from this than male ego and garrulous introspection.
Despite Knausgard's undeniably skillful writing and unexpectedly approachable writing, I still feel male ego and garrulous introspection was pretty much what I got.
Despite his talent, I just don't feel that yet another heterosexual, middle-aged white man's mémoirs is precisely what the world - or at least I - needs right now.
Sorry. I'll pass on the following five parts. (Yes! Six in all! I'll refrain from commenting on that one...)