Witold Gombrowicz

Witold Gombrowicz: his is one of those names you encounter in the world of literary history, but whose novels you won't often find in a bookshop (in America, at least). For me, Gombrowicz seemed unavoidable, and so, over the past few weeks, I've worked my way through one of his most celebrated novels, a mysterious, memorable book called Cosmos. 

I must say: I was expecting something like Kundera, but the book was evocative of Pynchon: deception and distraction are everywhere; conspiracy abounds. 

But the book also reminded me of Paul Auster, particularly his New York trilogy and its preoccupation with symbols. In Auster, as in Gombrowicz, characters must decipher one image from the next, one implied meaning from another. And what happens, ultimately, is that readers must do the same: as Gombrowicz weaves his tale (a bizarre one of murder and lust), readers are forced to determine which objects serve as the basis for metaphor, and which, by contrast, obfuscate authorial intent. 

I found the first half of this curious novel fascinating: the plot is so simple, so lean. And yet, there's something more happening there, just below the surface: there's passion and jealousy, and there's a metaphysical longing, too. Gombrowicz's characters draw infinite connections: they can't help themselves. These connections are everywhere, at all moments, and it's impressive, indeed, how that expansive vision of conspiracy, of intentionality affects the reader in his quest for understanding.

Cosmos is not a perfect book - and as I say, it was not was I was expecting given Gombrowicz's connection with other Cold War novelists. But the book is written in memorable fashion, and calls into question how we, as readers, endow literature with meaning. In that sense, I found it less a novel and more an exploration of interpretation itself.