Cosmos.de

cosmos.de

Rund um die Uhr für Sie da. Wie, wo & wann Sie wollen. Persönliche Beratung . Die Risikolebensversicherung von CosmosDirekt wurde in Focus Money. Amor De Cosmos (* August in Windsor, Nova Scotia; † 4. Juli in Victoria) war ein kanadischer Politiker und Journalist. Er galt als sehr exzentrisch .

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COSMOS 07 - EL ESPINAZO DE LA NOCHE (Español Latino) HQ Bei der Cosmo Dabke Night verwandelte sich die Location gestern Abend in eine riesige Tanzfläche - und alle haben mitgefeiert. De Cosmos trat am Er setzte sich leidenschaftlich für öffentliche Schulen, das Ende wirtschaftlicher und politischer Privilegien und insbesondere für die Einführung der Selbstverwaltung durch gewählte Volksvertreter ein. Radio Colonia sendet von Montag bis Freitag von 19 bis 20 Uhr. Aktualna magazinska emisija za sve one koji govore ili razumiju bosanski, hrvatski, srpski ili crnogorski jezik. Bei der Unterhauswahl im Juni wurde er nicht wiedergewählt. Michel Abdollahi ist "Der deutsche Schäferhund". Es geht um Menschen mit einer Stimme, um Menschen mit Macht. Im Poetry Schlamm - Gut gemacht! Wir sind ständig auf der Suche nach den interessantesten, innovativsten und dynamischsten Künstlern, die auf der Bühne ihre ganze Kraft entfalten. Diese Seite wurde zuletzt am Schreibt uns eure Geschichte per Formular oder Whatsapp oder ruft uns an! Als Nachkomme von Loyalisten , die während des Amerikanischen Unabhängigkeitskriegs geflohen waren, entwickelte De Cosmos einen ausgeprägten kanadischen Nationalismus.

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Wir haben mit euch die besten Global Pop Events in Europa gefeiert! COSMO spricht auch polnisch. Mail ins Studio Playlist und Titelsuche. Die aktuelle Magazinsendung für alle, die bosnisch, kroatisch, serbisch und montenegrinisch sprechen oder verstehen. Um 18 Uhr im Livestream, um 22 Uhr im Radio.

From November to April , he delivered a series of sixty-one lectures at the University of Berlin. The lectures were so well-attended, that Humboldt soon announced a second series, which was held in a music hall before an audience of thousands, free to all comers.

In after the Berlin lectures, Humboldt began formulating his vision in writing. His factual text, heavily loaded with footnotes and references, was sent in proof sheets to all the various specialists for comments and corrections before publication.

In this way, he aimed to ensure that what he wrote was both accurate and up-to-date. He continually looked to his friend and literary advisor Varnhagen von Ense for advice in the matter of his style of writing.

Humboldt felt as if publishing Cosmos was a race against death. The first volume was published in when he was seventy-six, the second when he was seventy-eight, the third when he was eighty-one, and the fourth when he was eighty-nine.

The fifth volume, however, was only half-written when Humboldt died in and had to be completed from his notes and provided with an index over a thousand pages long.

Adornment, however, is up to human interpretation. To Humboldt, Cosmos is both ordered and beautiful, through the human mind.

In the book Humboldt provided observations supporting the elevation crater theory of his friend Leopold von Buch. The theory in question intended to explain the origin of mountains and retained some popularity among geologists into the s.

Cosmos was considered to be both a scientific and literary achievement, immensely popular among nineteenth-century readers.

Book parcels destined for London and St. I needed no resolve. But, what was I supposed to read into it? Of our quest for meaning? Of the impossibility of meaning due to the abundance of them?

Distraction by the possibility of meaning? Is that the web Witold has weaved for me? Is what I am reading a metaphor for the very act of my reading?

Should I accept this joke or accept the alternative - of chance concatenation? Is Witold testing my capability to raise myself above my tendencies or my ability to fulfill them?

I kept asking Witold. But, he was having too much fun drawing fake arrows for me to pursue - knowing that I would eventually come to something that made relative sense to something of what he had written before he told me of the arrow.

I tried to focus only on what was happening in the story itself trying to ignore the knowing way Witold was leaning on his chair next to me - but NOTHING was happening.

And if nothing was happening, then a lot must surely be going on behind the scenes? Not even the reassurances on the absence of philosophy.

He knew I was too far gone. Should I keep to it? Trying to see if something new would happen, if meaning would crystalize?

But distaste for this affair, grotesque like an aborted fetus, held me back. Then led me on. I hated Witold now.

He was irritating me, even though he made no attempt to speak to me. Both in person and as the author.

He had exhausted the topic. We both knew that. The Riddler in The Mirror I came back to what could make sense. To the story as a metaphor for reading: The reader and the author?

Reading a metaphor for the very act of my reading? But it is an old trope to read that metaphor into everything! I cannot accept that. He would never be that transparent.

Maybe it is about religion, then? About the priest and the man? Why else would that atrocious priest figure in it?

God himself and Man? Maybe, of anywhere and any circumstance where meaning is explained by one to the other, thus opening up the possibility of a giant set-up?

A mockery of the very existence of meaning? But that would bring me the reader into the story and we would be back at the metaphor of reading!

Yet, one also has to take into account the fact that I was struck by the story because it connected with my own preconceptions.

I thirst for meaning and therefore I singled out that thirst in this story too, from many other things which are also probably talked about.

And so this confusion was partially of my own doing. But, I could never know to what degree I was the perpetrator, configuring the configurations around me, oh, the criminal keeps returning to the scene of the crime!

The reader is lost. Witold, I want to strangle you and hang you up on the nearest tree, I screamed silently. The facts and no others. They are like dots.

Something is emerging, like a figure. When one considers what a great number of sounds, forms reach us at every moment of our existence. Yet nothing is more difficult!

Meaning is the most easy thing to conjure. But to chose which meaning is impossible. I wanted to scream! Was something hiding behind this?

Did it all mean anything? It is after all only about the search for meaning? Or do we search for meaning to escape the drudgery of our daily life?

I can relate to that! Yes, let that be the answer please. Is that the meaning of this book then - that anyone searching for meaning has a dung-heap of a life?

But the ending, tying everything back to reality. I hated that the most. I had finished the book. Witold looked eagerly at me.

I did not let on that I had finished. I had started smiling now and then, quite meaningfully and made sure he saw where I was in the book, of course sometimes and sometimes not.

This was more fun: Just as all characters in the book become conspirators, co-conspirators and suspects in each others eyes, I was loving how I was reenacting the drama in a smaller cosmos - of only the two of us!

Just the two of us. I have something here. But I am letting that strand slip. I thought to myself, looking at Witold who was sitting a way away, stealing glances at me.

If he really wrote this nonsense with any philosophy in mind, it must have taken quite an effort to not let slip - or maybe it takes quite an effort from me to avoid it?

Finally, bored of the pretense, I closed the book and gave it back to Witold and knowingly told him that it was great fun and complete nonsense, just as he had told.

I almost winked at him, but that would have taken away from our now private joke. The After-Life We contemplate the vastness of the Cosmos: On a clear day you rest among ordinary, everyday things that have been familiar to you since childhood, grass, bushes, a dog or a cat , a chair, but that changes when you realize every object is an enormous army, an inexhaustible swarm.

We smiled together in the moonlight. No combination is impossible Any combination is possible I had thought most deeply, most intensely, but without the slightest thought.

In the end I told Witold - I had to crush him too, in case he did not mean it - It is a refutation of philosophy. Quite banal, in the end.

Not a gentle one. We need a song about that. View all 21 comments. And so often strangeness turn into absurdity. We manage to solve some mysteries but on the way we create the new ones.

Oct 29, [P] rated it it was amazing Shelves: Some time ago I was having a conversation with a friend of mine about women, specifically the art of figuring out which ones are interested in you, and he was saying that he never felt confident that he was reading the signs right; and that this lack of confidence, in a sense, paralysed him, so that he rarely approached them.

He wanted to know how I managed it. How was it that I was always so sure? Well, I let him in on a little secret: A glance, a nod, a smile…did she wink?

You can never be certain. Getting a telephone number, like a belief in God, requires a leap of faith. There is, with us, by which I mean human beings, an obsession, a mania, for signs, for interpretation, for creating narratives out of next to nothing.

A girlfriend of mine once said to me, after the break-up, that I had, at a certain point in the relationship, given her a look of disgust, and that in that moment she had known that we were doomed.

My face nearly always looks like that. What can you do? The truth is that I had never felt disgusted by her, of course not, but, ah, the look!

And what about science? I had, however, never got around to having a go at Cosmos. Zany and impenetrable had been my thing at one stage, but I had drifted away from that in recent years, as I rested my feet in the clear and warm waters of nineteenth century literature.

And maybe that break has done me good, because I came to Cosmos reenergised, fired up for exactly this kind of book. Cosmos is, on the surface, a detective story.

Two students, one of whom is the narrator, are looking for a place to stay when they happen upon a bird that has been hung from a piece of wire.

Out of this macabre and surreal discovery a mystery develops. After taking lodgings with the Wojtyses family the men start to notice other unusual things [or potential clues!

As the narrative progresses they become more and more convinced that there is a meaning or rationale behind it all, a puzzle to be put together and solved, a bigger picture.

Is someone playing a game with them? Or trying to tell them something? They are imbuing these things with meaning, pumping significance into them; they are imposing order and form upon the world, which is, as noted, something that we, by which I mean human beings, do all the time and can, moreover, be done in relation to absolutely anything; this is, for example, how superstitions are created.

An ordinary shelving unit! And yet people, including the artist himself of course, see something in that shelving unit, some kind of message or comment, some significance; they, yes, pump that grey shelving unit full of significance.

You might argue that we impose meaning on the world because otherwise it would be too overwhelming, too chaotic, too frightening.

The world is bigger than us, more powerful; and therefore we need to try and bring it to heel. What is interesting about Cosmos, however, is that Gombrowicz takes the opposing position, which is that an ordered world is overwhelming, that what is terrifying is relentless meaning.

He likens this to a swarm. It now strikes me that what Gombrowicz was doing was destroying form, destroying human order by breaking people down, pulling them apart.

Indeed, I could have burdened you with many more paragraphs, as there are a number of other subjects I would like to explore — coincidence, threads and logical connections, madness and obsession, and so on — but this review is long enough already, and there are still a couple of points I must briefly touch upon before I finish.

Secondly, and most importantly of all, this is a serious contender for the funniest book I have ever read. Which, I feel, is something that the author would have approved of.

View all 15 comments. Feb 05, Mariel rated it really liked it Recommends it for: Sparrow hanging in senseless success. A choked chicken adds to the symbol equation.

In an accident they stay the night. Her mouth was a big bang. Everything means nothing, and behind that mouth this mouth. If you fuck someone you fuck everyone they have ever sheet between.

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COSMO spricht auch polnisch. Sie waren davon überzeugt, wegen des under your spell deutsch Hafens werde die transkontinentale Eisenbahnlinie nicht wie versprochen bis nach Victoria führen. Bitte ändern Sie casino freispiele tricks Konfiguration Ihres Browsers. Premierminister von British Columbia. Die Kolonien sollten sich selbst versorgen bevölkerungsreichste stadt europa, eine eigene Identität entwickeln und eine politisch-wirtschaftliche Union bilden. Navigation Hauptseite Themenportale Zufälliger Artikel. Bei der Unterhauswahl im Juni wurde er nicht wiedergewählt. A Prose Poemto Humboldt. I hated that the most. Th Sparrow hanging in senseless success. Like a perverted Conan Doyle. Zany and impenetrable had been my thing at one stage, but I had drifted away from that in recent years, as I rested my feet in the clear and warm waters of nineteenth century literature. And no one relishes the idea of introspection about death and its fetishes. Distraction by the possibility of meaning? Published inCosmos is the last novel by Witold Gombrowicz — netto-online.de/glueck eingeben his most somber and multifaceted work. The sentences paypal kunden pin long and rambling, meandering through a convoluted psyche that is troubled by a growing paranoia. Refresh and try again. Come chiamare storia questo continuo … addensarsi e disfarsi … di elementi … Un passero impiccato, una freccia sul muro, un labbro femminile deformato, un gatto strangolato, bayer leberkusen mani di una timida ragazza, un albero preso a martellate. The central mystery of the novel - who cosmos.de the sparrow? Una passeggiata, allucinata e allucinante, di due fuori-di-testa, che cercano di trovare un free casino games slot machines no download nelle cose che un senso non hanno. I did not let on that I had finished.

cosmos.de - variant

Bei der Cosmo Dabke Night verwandelte sich die Location gestern Abend in eine riesige Tanzfläche - und alle haben mitgefeiert. Unsere Sprachensendungen täglich live Köln Radyosu. Diese Seite wurde zuletzt am Er setzte sich leidenschaftlich für öffentliche Schulen, das Ende wirtschaftlicher und politischer Privilegien und insbesondere für die Einführung der Selbstverwaltung durch gewählte Volksvertreter ein. Chinesische Arbeiter betrachtete er als billige Konkurrenz zu europäischen Arbeitern. Möglicherweise unterliegen die Inhalte jeweils zusätzlichen Bedingungen. Allgemein fiel er im Parlament wenig auf, da er sich darauf beschränkte, die Interessen seines Wahlkreises zu vertreten. De Cosmos trat am

His factual text, heavily loaded with footnotes and references, was sent in proof sheets to all the various specialists for comments and corrections before publication.

In this way, he aimed to ensure that what he wrote was both accurate and up-to-date. He continually looked to his friend and literary advisor Varnhagen von Ense for advice in the matter of his style of writing.

Humboldt felt as if publishing Cosmos was a race against death. The first volume was published in when he was seventy-six, the second when he was seventy-eight, the third when he was eighty-one, and the fourth when he was eighty-nine.

The fifth volume, however, was only half-written when Humboldt died in and had to be completed from his notes and provided with an index over a thousand pages long.

Adornment, however, is up to human interpretation. To Humboldt, Cosmos is both ordered and beautiful, through the human mind. In the book Humboldt provided observations supporting the elevation crater theory of his friend Leopold von Buch.

The theory in question intended to explain the origin of mountains and retained some popularity among geologists into the s.

Cosmos was considered to be both a scientific and literary achievement, immensely popular among nineteenth-century readers. Book parcels destined for London and St.

Petersburg were torn out of our hands by agents who wanted their orders filled for the bookstores in Vienna and Hamburg.

Its enthusiastic reception in England, where it came out in the Bohn Scientific Library in a translation by Elizabeth Leeves, particularly surprised him.

The reviews were gushing in praise of both the author and his work. However, some felt he had not done justice to the contribution of modern British scientists and many were quick to point out that Humboldt, who had written so exhaustively about the creation of the universe, failed to ever mention God the Creator.

A Prose Poem , to Humboldt. Humboldt is also credited with laying the foundations of physical geography, meteorology, and especially biogeography.

His account in Cosmos of the propagation of seismic waves also became the basis of modern seismology. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Redirected from Kosmos Humboldt. Downs, Landmarks in Science: Hippocrates to Carson Littleton, Colo: God himself and Man?

Maybe, of anywhere and any circumstance where meaning is explained by one to the other, thus opening up the possibility of a giant set-up?

A mockery of the very existence of meaning? But that would bring me the reader into the story and we would be back at the metaphor of reading!

Yet, one also has to take into account the fact that I was struck by the story because it connected with my own preconceptions.

I thirst for meaning and therefore I singled out that thirst in this story too, from many other things which are also probably talked about. And so this confusion was partially of my own doing.

But, I could never know to what degree I was the perpetrator, configuring the configurations around me, oh, the criminal keeps returning to the scene of the crime!

The reader is lost. Witold, I want to strangle you and hang you up on the nearest tree, I screamed silently.

The facts and no others. They are like dots. Something is emerging, like a figure. When one considers what a great number of sounds, forms reach us at every moment of our existence.

Yet nothing is more difficult! Meaning is the most easy thing to conjure. But to chose which meaning is impossible.

I wanted to scream! Was something hiding behind this? Did it all mean anything? It is after all only about the search for meaning?

Or do we search for meaning to escape the drudgery of our daily life? I can relate to that! Yes, let that be the answer please. Is that the meaning of this book then - that anyone searching for meaning has a dung-heap of a life?

But the ending, tying everything back to reality. I hated that the most. I had finished the book. Witold looked eagerly at me. I did not let on that I had finished.

I had started smiling now and then, quite meaningfully and made sure he saw where I was in the book, of course sometimes and sometimes not.

This was more fun: Just as all characters in the book become conspirators, co-conspirators and suspects in each others eyes, I was loving how I was reenacting the drama in a smaller cosmos - of only the two of us!

Just the two of us. I have something here. But I am letting that strand slip. I thought to myself, looking at Witold who was sitting a way away, stealing glances at me.

If he really wrote this nonsense with any philosophy in mind, it must have taken quite an effort to not let slip - or maybe it takes quite an effort from me to avoid it?

Finally, bored of the pretense, I closed the book and gave it back to Witold and knowingly told him that it was great fun and complete nonsense, just as he had told.

I almost winked at him, but that would have taken away from our now private joke. The After-Life We contemplate the vastness of the Cosmos: On a clear day you rest among ordinary, everyday things that have been familiar to you since childhood, grass, bushes, a dog or a cat , a chair, but that changes when you realize every object is an enormous army, an inexhaustible swarm.

We smiled together in the moonlight. No combination is impossible Any combination is possible I had thought most deeply, most intensely, but without the slightest thought.

In the end I told Witold - I had to crush him too, in case he did not mean it - It is a refutation of philosophy. Quite banal, in the end.

Not a gentle one. We need a song about that. View all 21 comments. And so often strangeness turn into absurdity.

We manage to solve some mysteries but on the way we create the new ones. Oct 29, [P] rated it it was amazing Shelves: Some time ago I was having a conversation with a friend of mine about women, specifically the art of figuring out which ones are interested in you, and he was saying that he never felt confident that he was reading the signs right; and that this lack of confidence, in a sense, paralysed him, so that he rarely approached them.

He wanted to know how I managed it. How was it that I was always so sure? Well, I let him in on a little secret: A glance, a nod, a smile…did she wink?

You can never be certain. Getting a telephone number, like a belief in God, requires a leap of faith. There is, with us, by which I mean human beings, an obsession, a mania, for signs, for interpretation, for creating narratives out of next to nothing.

A girlfriend of mine once said to me, after the break-up, that I had, at a certain point in the relationship, given her a look of disgust, and that in that moment she had known that we were doomed.

My face nearly always looks like that. What can you do? The truth is that I had never felt disgusted by her, of course not, but, ah, the look!

And what about science? I had, however, never got around to having a go at Cosmos. Zany and impenetrable had been my thing at one stage, but I had drifted away from that in recent years, as I rested my feet in the clear and warm waters of nineteenth century literature.

And maybe that break has done me good, because I came to Cosmos reenergised, fired up for exactly this kind of book. Cosmos is, on the surface, a detective story.

Two students, one of whom is the narrator, are looking for a place to stay when they happen upon a bird that has been hung from a piece of wire.

Out of this macabre and surreal discovery a mystery develops. After taking lodgings with the Wojtyses family the men start to notice other unusual things [or potential clues!

As the narrative progresses they become more and more convinced that there is a meaning or rationale behind it all, a puzzle to be put together and solved, a bigger picture.

Is someone playing a game with them? Or trying to tell them something? They are imbuing these things with meaning, pumping significance into them; they are imposing order and form upon the world, which is, as noted, something that we, by which I mean human beings, do all the time and can, moreover, be done in relation to absolutely anything; this is, for example, how superstitions are created.

An ordinary shelving unit! And yet people, including the artist himself of course, see something in that shelving unit, some kind of message or comment, some significance; they, yes, pump that grey shelving unit full of significance.

You might argue that we impose meaning on the world because otherwise it would be too overwhelming, too chaotic, too frightening.

The world is bigger than us, more powerful; and therefore we need to try and bring it to heel. What is interesting about Cosmos, however, is that Gombrowicz takes the opposing position, which is that an ordered world is overwhelming, that what is terrifying is relentless meaning.

He likens this to a swarm. It now strikes me that what Gombrowicz was doing was destroying form, destroying human order by breaking people down, pulling them apart.

Indeed, I could have burdened you with many more paragraphs, as there are a number of other subjects I would like to explore — coincidence, threads and logical connections, madness and obsession, and so on — but this review is long enough already, and there are still a couple of points I must briefly touch upon before I finish.

Secondly, and most importantly of all, this is a serious contender for the funniest book I have ever read. Which, I feel, is something that the author would have approved of.

View all 15 comments. Feb 05, Mariel rated it really liked it Recommends it for: Sparrow hanging in senseless success. A choked chicken adds to the symbol equation.

In an accident they stay the night. Her mouth was a big bang. Everything means nothing, and behind that mouth this mouth. If you fuck someone you fuck everyone they have ever sheet between.

Her mouth behind other her mouth, his hands on her hands your hands. White ceiling skies betray signs.

Th Sparrow hanging in senseless success. The cat crucifixation is not a mystery. Stay the night by put to sleep. Put them all out of your mind on nails.

Say it makes sense. Come chiamare storia questo continuo … addensarsi e disfarsi … di elementi … Un passero impiccato, una freccia sul muro, un labbro femminile deformato, un gatto strangolato, le mani di una timida ragazza, un albero preso a martellate.

Questi sono solo alcuni dei segni e degli eventi che il giovane Witold cerca ossessivamente di collegare e decifrare, in una cupa pensione immersa nella canicola estiva.

Il libro riporta le riflessioni in prima persona di una mente al limite della follia. Per me due stelle: A un tratto, al primo piano, vidi una finestra illuminata — la loro, quella di Lena e di Ludwik.

Vederla, vederla — vederla con lui — che cosa avrei visto? Lui le mostrava una teiera. Ero preparato a tutto. Ma a una teiera no. Esiste quel che si dice la goccia che fa traboccare il vaso.

View all 6 comments. May 11, Brent Legault rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: At first, his marginalia are serious and boring, like his essays no doubt.

Then, beginning on page 70 wherein a violent killing is described , he gets fed up. He stops thinking through the textbook or through the mouth of his professer and he begins to, well, not think but at least speak for himself.

Here are a few of his comments: I would have liked to have been reading this book aloud to him, preferably at his bedside while he lay in a full body cast.

Cosmos is obsessive, repetative in story and style, mind-rumbling and hilarious. It is weird and the narrator is a weirdo So I do, sometimes, agree with the college student.

Fortunately, he "lived" in a time when crazy could take over the page and make lovely, horrible fictions, never to be bogged down by the clinical, the catagorized, the dull.

What a wonderful weirdo is he! Oct 09, Jim Elkins added it Shelves: How to Be Genuinly Obsessive-Compulsive, Not Artificially So "Cosmos" is finicky, fidgety, microscopic, auto-erotic, pointless but sharp as a scratchy saw.

Like a perverted Conan Doyle. Like a psychotic entomologist I knew, who was nearly blind and wore absurd thick glasses and could be seen wandering around the college campus trying to peer at bees from one inch away.

He thought that car crashes happened somehow on account of him. Could not be better. Dec 10, Tanuj Solanki rated it really liked it Shelves: An absurd sight of a sparrow hung from a string begins this unique tale of great paranoia and even greater mental contrivance.

The central idea is of how a chaotic world is routinely, perpetually, even grudgingly, willed by us human beings into some sort of an order, and how the effects of this willing add in turn to the chaos.

The problem, therefore, is one of limits. And it is through ridiculing the limits that Gombrowicz creates his dark, nonsensical humor here.

The central mystery of the novel - who hung the sparrow? The ogling detective has a strong agency of his own, and also a fantastic imagination, and through these he contaminates the scene - which, again, exists largely in his own head - beyond all recovery.

In his un-moored consciousness, everything is at once the question as well as the answer. No end is plausible for this mystery, for the mind cultivates the mystery real-time.

Of the same league as Notes from the Underground, or Hunger. Mar 02, Ubik 2. If there is anyone who knows what the things are behind, in spite of and within themselves, it was this guy I would go for "is" though, as, I believe, now he still knows it, only somewhere else.

But then try not to. In a way we are all mad, "connecting and associating". In a way it is this madness that makes us be what we are. There is also an interesting passage on bringing yourself pleasure.

Out of a mouth of a nearly-madm If there is anyone who knows what the things are behind, in spite of and within themselves, it was this guy I would go for "is" though, as, I believe, now he still knows it, only somewhere else.

Out of a mouth of a nearly-madman or not, it sounded convincing. May 06, Bjorn rated it really liked it Shelves: Cosmos, like all detective novels, is all about finding the clues.

So our hero and narrator Witold and his friend start to gather evidence. In trying to find out what things mean, at what point do they go from observing to concluding to ascribing?

The defining ability of mankind is not our sense of humour, or our love, or our hate, or our ability to use tools; animals can do all of that, in one way or another.

What we can do, what only we can do, is to try and figure out meaning, to make sense. We supposedly understand intricate chains of cause-and-effect, we supposedly understand symbolism, we supposedly understand how context matters We look at a bunch of stars that are hundreds of light years apart and call them a constellation; we look at an abstract painting and call it a portrait; we look at a bunch of possibly related lives and call them a plot.

As you may gather, Cosmos is not your typical detective story. As darkly humorous as Gombrowicz always is, the narrator gets on my nerves a bit after a while.

Not a lot, but a little bit. And yet somehow, Cosmos is a detective story. A surreal, nightmarish, perverted detective story, but a detective story nonetheless in both plot and form.

Then again, so is Crime And Punishment. Find the killer, save the damsel, save the world, figure out how everything works, live happily ever after.

And so, the one place where Cosmos deviates heh from the norm is in its perception of whether that is at all possible. The traditional detective story tries to create order from chaos; take a number of seemingly unrelated clues, and then use your little grey cells to piece them all together into a watertight cause-and-effect narration of what happened; the killer is caught, the deviant object is removed and order is restored.

The story has a clear beginning and a clear end. In trying to solve one mystery, bring order to one seemingly chaotic chain of events, the detective has just created new mysteries, uncovered new deviations.

At some point, the deviation becomes the norm; as Frank Zappa once said, "anything played wrong twice in a row is a new arrangement". Mar 28, Jesse rated it liked it Shelves: Cosmos is a long pages.

It is tedious during most of the first half, then explodes with power. More tedium follows, escalating to the point that it becomes nail-biting tension.

A tedious denoument follows a thrilling climax. Overall, the book offers maybe a 3: Translation issues aside, it is hard to imagine a Cosmos with the energy and charm of Trans-Atlantyk.

As a psychological study, though, the book is admirable and as a polemic against boredom and solipsism, it is actually quite moving. Un giallo filosofico abitato da chimere, cadaveri e oggetti magici.

Dec 20, Billy rated it it was ok Recommends it for: A few years ago people started to use the phrase "mental masturbation" to describe conversations involving an Ivy League bull session-esque, punctilious analysis focused to a fault on details, or on the wildly hypothetical, such that they do not offer any use in the real world.

Reading this short novel detective story? The main character in this book, a young man who i A few years ago people started to use the phrase "mental masturbation" to describe conversations involving an Ivy League bull session-esque, punctilious analysis focused to a fault on details, or on the wildly hypothetical, such that they do not offer any use in the real world.

The main character in this book, a young man who is vacationing at a family-run pensione in the countryside with a friend, narrates an irritatingly tedious stream of consciousness, what could quite well be described as "mental masturbation.

Lest you not come to it yourself, the translator lends a hand with a footnote explaining that another passage represents "[f]urther development of the onanistic theme.

This would be interrupted regularly with painfully brief moments of narrative coherence, before resuming. But I did find the book fascinating and Artful in that it made to feel captive in the mind of someone lost in the noise of his own perceptions--perhaps the character is autistic?

I have no idea. Jan 03, Crito rated it it was amazing Shelves: The style Gombrowicz uses in Cosmos reminds me of jazz.

Not quite in the pseudo-improvisational bent the way the beats interpreted it, but the structure behind it. You have a finite number of familiar notes, chords, scales, and yet through arrangement, rhythm, and sheer ingenuity a player can rapid fire out a galaxy of unique interpretations of it.

Cosmos is about the problem of induction, that we know what we know based our perception of the necessary connections between things, which then breaks down into unreliable guesswork because of everything that goes unperceived.

The Cosmos then is, as the word implies, the entire universe of objects and matter. The characters form their own perceived cosmos in their local area they inhabit, and from their deep intimacy with their environment they trick themselves into thinking they know how and why things make sense.

Dal caos al cosmos. Mar 04, Shawn rated it it was ok. I am convinced that most people read novels such as this, can make neither hide nor hair of it, but are afraid that admitting as much is to admit that they are unable to grasp depth and meaning in the depthless and meaningless.

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