This is one of those books that I bought purely because 'everyone's talking about it', it's a 'literary sensation', blah blah blah. And it is well written, and I suppose it's interesting in the sense that every intelligent person's life is interesting because articulateness enables them to turn ordinary events into great swathes of philosophy. But in all honesty, I found that while it made me feel worthy, and garnered approving looks from fellow bibliophiles on trains, I just couldn't get into it, and even found I was preferring to snuggle directly into my duvet at bedtime than pick up this book. As a result, I gave up at about page 100.
In its favour, I will say that perhaps I just wasn't in the right mood for it, as I have enjoyed similar books in the past, and I have left a bookmark - ok, the receipt - in it at the page at which I gave up, should I decide, at any further prompting and persuasion, to resume reading. My overall response to A Death in the Family, though, is that my life is too short to spend listening to Karl Ove Knausgaard philosophising about his own. It's no Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, that's for sure.