Karl Ove Knausgaard is in the news. A Norwegian writer of some renown in his country, he got tired of fiction some years back. All he could bear reading were diaries and essays. And so he has produced a six-volume account of his day-to-day life, in which he talks about his family, his wives, and his children with no holds barred. He has become a celebrity in Norway, and the first three volumes have already been translated into English. But he is now in court with some of his relatives, and he has received not a few death threats from several among those affected. Many readers are outraged, too. The title of his work, Min Kamp or My Struggle, is all too familiar, as well. Which is why I lost interest in Knausgaard pretty fast in spite of many a similarity in our outlook. But my main concern upon reading about his writing was elsewhere. Would I ever wish to become famous like him? No, thanks. And no kidding. Courts and death threats are not my cup of tea. And this is why I love fiction and nothing but fiction. In fact, my account of my day-to-day life has nothing to do with my actual experience. In accordance with the old formula, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental in my writings. This includes my family, my wives, and my children. Well, it includes myself, as well. I, too, am pure fiction. Dear reader, go read Knausgaard instead.