Hey, a "gaard" made The New Yorker with a fiction piece! Hells yeah. It's a funny story about a failed romance from the POV of a twelve year old.
Here's a descriptive excerpt from it that I liked:
"There were trees everywhere, tall, broad-crowned deciduous trees, cluttered with green leaves, full of chattering birds. The patch, which was no more than beaten earth and bare rockface, was crossed in several places by huge roots that resembled prehistoric animals. The grass growing alongside the streambed was thick and lush. In the wilderness at the bottom there were fallen trees with smooth trunks, and many plants covered the bed between the dry, lifeless branches, which had been there for as long as I could remember. It was easy to imagine that the forest was deep, endlessly deep, and full of mystery."
The piece published in the Feb 17th and 24th issue of the Yorker and is apparently part of a longer book/six volume series by Knausgaard. There's also an interview with him on the Yorker blog. In the interview he states:
"The tricky thing was, indeed, to refuse my older and more experienced
self any space in the text. Everyone wants to be clever—it’s hard to
give up that side and go blindly for stupidity. But even more
frightening was the fact that it was so easy—that this combination of
cockiness and cluelessness, as you so precisely pin it down, was
apparently still very close to my present self. I guess I have a talent
for humiliation, a place within me that experience can’t reach, which is
terrible in real life, but something that comes in handy in writing. It
seems as though humiliation has become a career for me."