Cosmos by Witold Gombrowicz

By Witold Gombrowicz

Milan Kundera known as Witold Gombrowicz “one of the good novelists of our century." His most renowned novel, Cosmos, the recipient of the 1967 foreign Prize for literature, is now to be had in a seriously acclaimed translation, for the 1st time at once from the Polish, through the award-winning translator Danuta Borchardt.

Cosmos is a metaphysical noir mystery narrated by means of Witold, a seedy, pathetic, and witty pupil, who's fascinating and appalling via turns. On his solution to a soothing holiday he meets the despondent Fuks. As they trigger jointly for a family-run pension within the Carpathian Mountains they find a useless chook striking from a string. is that this a wierd yet meaningless incidence or is it the start of a string of surprising occasions. because the younger males develop into embroiled within the Chekhovian travails of the relations operating the pension Grombrowicz's creates a gripping narrative the place the reader questions who's sane and who's secure.

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Extra resources for Cosmos

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It *The name of a beautiful princess and also title of a poem about her by Adam Mickiewicz. Cosmos  was difficult to understand such gibberish. ” He didn’t always speak in “word-monsters,” sometimes he began crazily and ended quite normally, or vice versa—the shining roundness of his bald dome, his face stuck below it, his pince-nez stuck to that, hovered above the table like a balloon—his mood often turned humorous, and he would crack jokes, mommydear, easy does it, you know the one about the bicycle and the tricycle, when Icyk* sat on a bicyk, what a tricyk, yahoo!

But . . it could be either way . . this way or that . . ” Cosmos  chapter  T he evanescence, the intangibility of it all forced us to retreat, we returned to our work, I to my manuscript, he to his notes, but my distraction did not leave me, it mounted as the evening wore on, and the deepening darkness of those places, beyond the road, at the far end of the garden, penetrated the brightness of our lamp. Now another possibility occurred to us. Who could guarantee that, in addition to the arrow we had discovered, there weren’t other signs hidden on the walls or elsewhere, in the combination of the stain above the sink and the peg that lay on top of the cupboard, for example, or in the scratches on the floor .

I returned to my room, lay down, and fell asleep faster than one would have expected. The next day we took out our books and papers and went to work—I didn’t ask him what he had done during the night—I felt reluctant to recall my own adventures in the hallway, I was like someone who had succumbed to fanciful extravagances and now feels awkward, yes, I felt awkward, but Fuks looked sheepish too and mutely turned to his calculations, which were laborious, on numerous scraps of paper, he even used logarithms, his goal being to develop a method at roulette, a method that would be, without the slightest doubt—and he knew it—humbug, tommyrot, but on which he focused all his energies because he had nothing better to do, nothing to keep him busy, his situation was hopeless, his vacation would be over in two weeks, he would then return to his office and to Drozdowski who would make superhuman efforts not to look at him, but there was no way around it because, even if he were to carry out his duties diligently, this too would be unbearable to Drozdowski .

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