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Humboldt goes on to suggest that when one contemplates the beauty of the cosmos, one can obtain personal inspiration and a beneficial, if subjective, awareness about life.
Cosmos was highly popular when it was released, with the first volume selling out in two months, and the work translated into most European languages.
Since the early years of the nineteenth century, Humboldt had been a world-famous figure, second in renown only to Napoleon. By the time he wrote Cosmos , Humboldt was an esteemed explorer, cosmographer, biologist, diplomat, engineer, and citizen of the world.
Twenty-five years after his exploration of the Americas, at the age of sixty, Humboldt undertook an extended tour, subsidized by the Tsar of Russia, into the interior of Asia.
Ehrenberg and Gustav Rose, traveled across the vast expanse of the Russian empire. Upon his return, Humboldt left the publication of the scientific results to Ehrenberg and Rose, while his own work — a three-volume descriptive geography entitles Asie Centrale — did not appear until many years later.
Asie Centrale focused on the facts and figures of Central Asian geography, along with data to complete his isothermal world map. In , having spent himself into poverty publishing his scientific works, his king, Friedrich Wilhelm III, reminded Humboldt of his debt and recalled him to Berlin.
When he arrived in Berlin, Humboldt announced that he would give a course of lectures on physical geography.
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. Lists with This Book. Sometimes a Cigar Is Just a Smoke For a sign to be a sign there must be an intention which is quite independent of the object which constitutes the sign itself.
Finding intention, and therefore meaning, is a tricky business. It requires imagination, which projects meaning onto objects, making them signs by magic as it were.
This creates a mystery: A fetish is a sign of only itself; it is the feeling it creates. A fetish is therefore a linguistic dead end; it is the antithesis of an ikon, which makes connections elsewhere.
Fetishism is a slippery slope. Intention projected is intention perceived. Hence paranoia maintains itself with all the evidence it needs.
Fetishes are dirty, shadow-side things. In terms of projected meaning, the closest thing to religion and sex is death, the ultimate shadow. And no one relishes the idea of introspection about death and its fetishes.
A problem arises however when the desire to keep the projected meaning of death external leads to a self-protecting action - murder - thus confirming the objective otherness of death.
Even if the victim is only a cat, the point is made: And a satisfying outcome for the fetishist. But nonetheless even this is uncertain: For him, meaning must be presumed in order to find meaning but not a particular meaning.
Gombrowicz presents a rather more complex situation, the human compulsion to assign specific, definite meaning from a sort of inner space.
The result of this compulsion is much more difficult to decipher than alien transmissions. View all 12 comments. Sep 24, s. How many meanings can one gleam from hundreds of weeds, colds of dirt, and other trifles?
A Novel , and his masterpiece Ferdydurke. Gombrowicz exposes the human desire to create order from the randomness that beleaguers their existence in order to view the world as a safe, functionary society in which they are mature and essential cogs instead of a chaotic void in which we are merely immature and irrelevant.
The plot of this novel is highly secondary, and consists of the narrator, a college youth on holiday named Witold, accompanying a classmate to an out of the way pension in order to study in peace.
In the darkness of the forest, they discover a hung sparrow, which sets off a seemingly connected or are they? Through this sleuthing, the reader is invited into the feverish mind of Wiltold the narrator to question the nature of signs and deciphering symbols from randomness.
Do they really stumble onto covert codes, or is it the human desire to construct meaning? The sentences are long and rambling, meandering through a convoluted psyche that is troubled by a growing paranoia.
It takes a good portion of this short novel for the reader to get a firm footing, and unlike the powerful imagery and poetry of Pornografia , or the absurd Monty Python-esk comedy and literary investigations of Ferdydurke , Cosmos is intentionally bland.
These tidbits of the bizarre are constantly reexamined in his mind, ordered and picked up one by one to turn over, caress, and put back as if they were treasured items in a collection, done so an overwhelming multitude of times that the repetition is very likely to chafe on the reader.
For being short in length, the novel slogs forward through the muck of mangled reality and by the time the reader reaches the incredible and exciting conclusion, the book may have worn thin on their patience.
Despite the few cumbersome aspects of this novel, Gombrowicz shines with his acute sense of subtly and paranoia. The narrator is constantly on the lookout for associations, often staggering when another character mentions something offhanded that can vaguely associate with the thoughts in his head.
The characters in the novel crave order, desire some map composed of meaning and method to abate our fear of randomness and chaos.
They make order in their lives with marriage, religions, and divine a clear explanation for any of their actions. The chaos of nature threatens their worldview.
Here is where we also find the priest, lost in the wilderness as Gombrowicz takes his standard jabs at religions method of proclaiming meaning in a meaningless world.
Here is where the true nature of the title, Cosmos, a word never used in the novel is exposed. To Gombrowicz, the cosmos, the universe, is a chaotic void deplete of meaning.
This notion, expressed best in Pornografia: A Novel when narrator Witold observes an atheist praying in church and drops into a vision of the church floating aimlessly in a void, seems to have finally grown into a full-fledged theme in Cosmos, pointed and poked at but never overtly mentioned.
The major theme from Ferdydurke , that of immaturity, has also blossomed in this novel. The adults, those who are looked at as pillars of society and the family, most notably the bank manager, is a mere buffoon who uses childish wordplay and singsongy phrases.
All these onanstic and detective themes of the novel come together for a startling conclusion that really makes all the pieces fit together and hum.
Cosmos is a wonderful read, difficult and annoying at times, but full of thoughts to ponder and reflect over.
It would be very much advisable to have read his earlier novels first to fully appreciate the ideas at play here and to draw many of the connections left open for the reader, plus I cannot recommend many novels more highly than I do Ferdydurke.
View all 50 comments. Dec 15, Riku Sayuj rated it really liked it Recommended to Riku by: A Cosmos Prelude Why? Anyhow, here goes, Witold and I, and our silent adventure: The Enticement Witold approached me in the park today.
He asked me to read his latest book. Just needed an opinion, he said. I knew he was getting to be a big shot in Poland these days.
I also knew he had been dabbling quite a bit in Philosophy at the University. So when he gave me his book, I was sure I would end up looking for philosophy in it even though he assured me it was just a bit of tom-foolery.
No deep meaning, I assure you - He was very categorical about that. I flipped the pages. Mildly interesting, I told an eager Witold. I read on, about a hanged sparrow, about minute hands, about deformed lips and about chance concatenation of events… accompanied by increasing distraction.
I told Witold as much. You need to correct the flow of events, I told him. Not surprising at all, Witold winked at me, because too much attention to one object leads to distraction, this one object conceals everything else, and when we focus on one point on the map we know that all other points are eluding us.
That sounds deep, I said, and made to put down the book. Oh no, no, Witold cried. Just a mistake, please be reading on! I was only talking in general, not at all in particular.
Of this book, there is nothing particular to talk about at all. No philosophy at all then? I asked, just to confirm. None at all, Witold reassured. No justification for it.
You know me, I am all against philosophy, he sat down on the next bench, as if to add to the reassurance. But the same events again started rushing in on me, suffocatingly.
No justification, I grumbled to myself. The less justification it had the more strongly philosophy inflicted itself upon me and became more intrusive and more difficult for me to shake off—if it had no justification, then the fact that it was pestering me was all the more significant!
The Holy Grail There had to be meaning. Witold cannot make a fool of me. What I need is resolve. Who am I fooling? 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.
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