Same ISBN as this edition but mine's older (1968). I'll let that lie. I read this after "The Path to the Nest of Spiders" hoping that this one wd have more formal language play.. & it did, but not necessarily enuf to satisfy me. No doubt it was very good but I'm playing it safe here & giving it a 3 star.

❌توجه توجه: شما تنها یک صدم ثانیه بَر روی زمین زندگی می‌کنید

روزی که روز نبود و اصلا هیچ چیز نبود(کلمه بود از فقدان کلمه و نامفهومی زمان میگویم)، تکرار میکنم: هیچ هیچ هیچ چیزی نبود ⏳(نمیتوونی تصور کنی)

ناگهان در یک لحظه‌ی (کیهانی) یک دانه بی نهایت ریزِ (کیهانی) در یک تریلیون تریلیون تریلیونیم ثانیه‌ی (کیهانی) در یک تریلیون تریلیون تریلیون بزرگ شد و همه چیزو بوجود اورد:
فضا،زمان،اتم،مولکول،نور،فوتون،ماده

This book is a series of short stories that tell about evolution of the universe and of life. It is a sort of allegorical fantasy, entertaining, humorous, and thought-provoking. What is it like to be a sentient being, afloat in the universe? How could you restore your reputation, when someone who is 100 million light years distant, directs a sign toward you, saying "I SAW YOU"? What sort of signpost would you build, to figure out the rotation period of the galaxy? What would you do if you were the last dinosaur alive on earth, among new species of animals? What would you do if your fiancee decided to revert back to being a fish, in order to live with your great-uncle? Would you place a bet that Assyria would invade Mesopotamia, even before the Earth had formed? What would it be like to be a mollusk?

Each story is preceded by a short paragraph that relates the real science that motivates the story. In this book, translated from the Italian, fantasy is woven with science. It is mind-bending.

Note: My review is for the Danish-language omnibus version of the Cosmicomics, which also contains stories written after the publication of the original collection that feature many of the same characters and are written in a similar style.

This is a collection of literal "space-age fairy tales", a bunch of (usually humorous) fables that are metaphors for the creation of the universe with most of the characters being personifications of various natural forces, laws of nature etc. Others describe key events in the evolution of life on Earth... the best of these is a truly hilarious tragicomic tale of the last living dinosaur, which ends with one of the finest "what the hell was THAT?" endings I've ever read. It varies wildly between individual stories how abstract the levels of allegory are.

As odd a book as this might be, I still think that out of the books by Italo Calvino I've read it's one of those that are easiest to get into for the average person along with "Mr. Palomar". I also find it interesting that these stories are weird in similar ways as actual fairy tales and folklore before they're sanitised for modern audiences by Walt Disney and his ilk: Obviously unreliable narrators, ultra-anachronistic mixtures of different eras for the setting, bawdy humour in stories apparently written for children to explain why things are the way they are... I don't think this is unintentional, since the author has also written several collections of authentic folk tales. It should also be mentioned that especially in the later stories, the prose is absolutely beautiful.

Like I say in my other reviews of Italo Calvino books: The common stereotype about experimental literature in general is that it's too detached and cerebral to be really fun. This is a sentiment that Calvino must have made his mission to prove wrong. That said, "The Complete Cosmicomics" did contain a couple stories that feel a bit too gimmicky for my taste, and others where the scientific content and metaphors flew completely over my head.

Έχοντας πολύ πρόσφατα και άμεσα στη μνήμη μου τον απόηχο από τις "Αόρατες Πόλεις", προβληματίστηκα πολύ μεταξύ 4 και 5 αστεριών, οπότε 4,5*

Δεν ξέρω πώς καταφέρνει αυτός ο άνθρωπος να με κάνει να αγαπάω με κάθε λέξη, κάθε φράση, κάθε μικρή ιστορία έναν τομέα της λογοτεχνίας που με άφηνε παντελώς ουδέτερη μέχρι που ήρθα σε επαφή με τα πρώτα του διηγήματα, την (Επιστημονική) Φαντασία. Ίσως γιατί από τις πρώτες λέξεις ακόμα σε μεταφέρει στο δικό του κόσμο, γίνεσαι μέλος του και όχι απλός παρατηρητής. Βρίσκεσαι δίπλα στη λιμνοθάλασσα, περπατάς στους αμμόλοφους, σκαρφαλώνεις στα βράχια ή ξαπλώνεις στην παραλία...την ώρα που ο αινιγματικός αλλά πάντα οικείος Κφβφκ αφηγείται τις μοναδικές του ιστορίες. Τίποτα πια δεν ανήκει στη σφαίρα της φαντασίας...όλα συμβαίνουν γύρω σου και συμμετέχεις και συ.

Ένα σημείο συνοψίζει όλες τους χρόνους και τις κινήσεις, ενσωματώνει τον χρόνο και το χώρο σε μία μόνο στιγμή που σπάει και ξανασυντίθεται σε άπειρες επιμέρους στιγμές. Ένας χώρος γεμάτος παράδοξα, ένας χώρος χωρίς υλική υπόσταση, το κενό...που όμως περικλείει σκηνές από ένα απέραντο αφήγημα. Δεν υπάρχει η έννοια του διαστήματος, υπάρχει όμως η χτένα της Ούρσουλας Χ'ξ... δεν υπάρχει χώρος παρά μόνον η ύπαρξη ενός σημείου...υπάρχει όμως μία καθαρίστρια και τα σκεύη της οικογένειας Ζ'ζου...δεν υπάρχει ύλη...αλλά η γιαγιά ζητάει την κουλούρα της. Όλα αυτά τα παράδοξα εντοπίζονται στο σύμπαν του Ίταλο Καλβίνο.

Ένα σύμπαν γεμάτο μηνύματα που βρίσκουν πάτημα στη σημερινή εποχή, με αλληγορίες και συμβολισμούς που πίσω απο το χιουμοριστικό τους τόνο είναι σε θέση να προβληματίσουν, να καυτηριάσουν και να ειρωνευτούν τον σύγχρονο κόσμο και τις δομές του.

"...ενώ όμως εγώ έκανα σαν μανιακός για να αποσπάσω από τα πράγματα άγνωστες συγκινήσεις, εκείνη προτιμούσε να συρρικνώνει το καθετί στην άχρωμη διάσταση της ύλης." (σελ. 64)
"...όμως είχα αποκτήσει μια δική μου άποψη, ότι δηλαδή το σημαντικό ήταν να δημιουργείς εικόνες, και τα μάτια θα έρχονταν μετά." (σελ. 167)

I read this on route to Vietnam, sad to leave my half-read but weighty Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid at home. It was strangely a related interlude, a different look at the laws underpinning our universe and our reality. However the motivation of both authors was very similar - how do we as humans try to understand the complexity and wonder of the constraints and possibilities inherent in the structure of our reality? How does physics translate to our human experience, and how does our human experience affect our translation of physics? I was reminded of GEB's recursion - our experience affecting our reality which ths affects our experience - in this lies all possibilities within the boundaries of our physics.

And Calvino sees the limitless lyrical and beautiful possibilities of the human condition - hope, joy, sadness, loss, yearning, lust, anger, confusion, jealousy, arrogance, love, desire - all contained within our universe, which of course containes the observer.

Here he presents with deft touch whimsical, delightful observations in a style where A Brief History of Time meets Alice in Wonderland. This is not fantasy, this is not magical realism, it is sui generis - the best term I can think of is magical science. It is totally believable and so natural it seems real, not allegory.

This little book is a precious gem, each facet sparkling with suprise and wonder.

Esto no es una reseña ¿o sí?

El día de ayer, después de 26 largos días, recibí mi ejemplar de Las cosmicómicas de Italo Calvino. El libro me hacía mucha ilusión por ser una edición antigua y descontinuada, quizá también jugó conmigo el elemento "destino", donde uno suele pensar que se le cruzan ciertas cosas en determinado momento y deben ser aprovechadas sí o sí. En fin, las expectativas fueron decayendo conforme el servicio de Correos de México reflejó ser igual de antiguo que la edición del libro: veía recelosamente entrar y salir de la colonia a las modernas vagonetas grises de Amazon, las blancas y pulidas de Estafeta, y las características amarillo pollo Bachoco de DHL; de SEPOMEX, ni seña. El destino ya había sido ridiculizado por lo "cosmicómico" de la situación, y pensé que sería una buena oportunidad para escribir un cuento, donde en un día gris entre drones, vagonetas flotantes y otros adelantados transportes, el Guardagujas —del cuento homónimo de Arreola— ha comenzado a trabajar como repartidor de Correos de México. Hasta ahí llegó mi imaginación, porque como dije al inicio, el día de ayer recibí mi paquete, y no, no pude ver quién ni cómo lo dejó, solo escuché un silbato en repetidas ocasiones, y cuando abrí la puerta, el paquete ya había sido lanzado a la cochera.

II
Aún no he escrito ese cuento sobre el Guardagujas y el servicio postal mexicano, pero lo que sí hice, fue leer Las cosmicómicas. Qué fantástico libro. Pienso en ternura, el paso del tiempo, la ciencia y sobre todo en la diversión que existe al leer, y también en la que se puede alcanzar escribiendo: cuando uno se divierte mientras lee, pasando por múltiples posturas de acomodo en el sillón o en la cama, y las páginas pasan una tras otra, es porque el escritor de éstas también lo hizo. A eso me gusta aspirar, a crear historias simplemente por el gusto de ver que pasa con lo que escribo, a dónde se dirige y en qué esporádica palabra podrá terminar. Cómo cuando Qfwfq –narrador de Las cosmicómicas– relata el periodo cuando fue dinosaurio y al final de la historia termina abordando un tren y confundiéndose con la multitud.
No hay límites a la hora de imaginar, el Guardagujas puede conducir una bicicleta mientras sus colegas repartidores viajan en naves espaciales, o incluso podría ser algo nostálgico, donde la automatización ha relegado el uso del humano y el Guardagujas es una suerte de Jaimito el cartero, llegando y silbando entre las calles; un pequeño pregunta a su madre “qué es ese ruido”, y la madre piensa cuando preguntaba lo mismo a la suya y le respondía que era el afilador de cuchillos. Una idea aborda el tren y se confunde entre la multitud de posibilidades, éstas pueden ser abrumadoras, pero también divertidas.

تقریبا مطمینم این آخرین کتابی هست که از کالوینو می خونم. کتابی سرشار از نبوغ یک نویسنده. خوشحالم که خواندمش

تو كلش داشتم فكر مى كردم به اين كه ميلاد زكريا چطور هر صفحه رو ترجمه كرد و خسته نشد؟

This is a wonderful set of short stories which comes as no surprise from the Cuban born, Italian Italo Calvino. I had previously read If on a Winter’s Night A Traveler and Invisible Cities, both I highly recommend, and enjoyed both of them immensely. I once heard about the vast differences between all of Calvino’s novels; that certainly seems true, each one of those books bare vague resemblances to one another; the similarities residing in minor things like, short story format, magical realist elements and gorgeous prose. Ultimately, Calvino is one of my favorite authors because he can take nearly any premise and breath wonderful imaginative life into them. If nothing else, I come away with such vivid and delightful images that I can’t help but think he was something of a genius; at least with that aspect of writing which I find to be the hardest. Any one and their mom can write some poetically-tinged block of prose and send it on its way, but it takes a little something extra to create a literary world, living and breathing with the perfect amount of detail it needs, complete unto itself, full of imaginative wonder. Calvino, most especially has a knack for these set pieces. The best example of that comes in the first story of this collection.

Is it a spoiler to describe the first story? Can you spoil a short story collection? Well, if so, you’ve been warned. The entire book follows poor Qwfwq, if read literally, he is some sort of shape shifter—across species as well as subatomic particles—as he experiences the universe at varying times from the moment of its creation, to the development of matter, to the formation of the earth. Each story is prefaced with an italicized section detailing a certain scientific theory or maxim. The first, called  The Distance from the Moon, has a theory formulated by George H. Darwin, the famed Charles Darwin’s son. The prediction is in regards to the origin and formation of the moon. At the time of the writing of Cosmicomics, it was believed that the moon was once very close to the earth and that it slowly drifted away from the earth in its orbit. Calvino imagines a strange tribe of some sort of half human, half fish type creatures that harvest the moon for the milk that it has. They ride on a boat across the ocean, where the moon gets closest to the earth. They have to climb a ladder and jump, lingering for a moment between the gravitational pulls of both surfaces until the point where the gravity of the moon overtakes the gravity of the earth and the person is pulled towards the moon. Calvino’s description of the ocean from that point of view is stunning. Imagine “the sea above you, glistening, with the boat and the others upside down, hanging like a bunch of grapes from the vine.” The rest of the story plays with this conceit. This story may be the longest, and it is his most effective. It even follows a strict three-act structure with inciting incident, dark night of the soul and denouement. I was impressed that this section, which is packed full of mother/Lacanian ideas could also be formally compact. More than just that, however, is what permeates through all of these stories. In all of them, Calvino’s imagination shines. If you let it, it will take you up in its wonderful world. The entire collection is a conjunction of fantasy, science, magical realism and realist emotions. One story talks of a left-over dinosaur after the others went extinct. Calvino tells a story about social ostracism and conflicted identity. There is a story about the steady state theory of the universe, the theory all but rejected now. In which the character Qwfwq chases another character, Pwfwp throughout the universe. He finally notices that he can see the back of his own head in front of Pwfwp, Pwfwp is actually chasing Qwfwq! Until he notices that there is an infinite number of Q’s chasing P’s and vice versa. From Q’s perspective, he is chasing P, but from P’s perspective, P is chasing Q.

This is a prime example of Calvino’s overall intention with the work. He wants to impress upon the reader the arbitrary nature of privileging perspective. In an interview within a book called The Uses of Literature: Essays, Calvino says that

n  “Robbe-Grillet came out with a bitter attack on anthropomorphism, against the writer who still humanized the landscape. . . It is not that Robbe-Grillet’s argument didn’t convince me. It is just that in the course of writing I have come to take the oppostire route in stories that are a positive delirium of anthropomorphism, of the impossibility of thinking about the world except in terms of human figures. . . [I] multiplied his eyes and his nose in every direction until he no longer knows who he is.”n

The point of each story is to simultaneously laugh at how ridiculous it is to compare evolution to human social interaction, yet at the same time indulge, because how else do we know about the world around us? In Cosmicomics there is a particular sadness in each story, a loss and tragedy of understanding. Even the signs which we take to be words begins to break down, as the meanings of words proliferate and destabilize.

n  "I realized that with what seemed a casual jumple of words I had hit on an infinite reserve of new combinations among the signs which compact, opaque, uniform reality would use to disguise its monotony, and I realized that perhaps the race toward the future, the race I had been the first to foresee and desire, tended only—through time and space—toward a crumbling into alternatives like this, until it would dissolve in a geometry of invisible triangles and ricochets like the course of a football among the white lines of a field as I tried to imagine them, drawn at the bottom of the luminous vortex of the planetary systems, deciphering the numbers marked on the chests and backs of the players at night, unrecognizable in the distance."n

He takes anthropocentrism to its logical extreme. By applying human characteristic to even the most absurd of things—subatomic particles and the original point of matter from which the big bang sprung—he exposes it this "humanizing" for the absurdity it is.

While reading all these stories, I couldn’t stop thinking about the sheer incomprehensibility of the universe. From its most minute particles to its cosmic grandiosity, we are stuck amid an ocean of unknowability; the basis for our existence only to be reified in arbitrary metaphors—even string theorists will tell you that “strings” are just the best metaphor they came conjure—and we are stuck in this self-privileged perspective by which we interact with the universe. I think about the incredibly miniature, the infinite regress of sub-atomic matter and the indomitable vastness of a star, not even ours, ours isn’t even that large and my head begins to spin. In every story, Calvino harps on this inability for any of us to really understand the incredible nature of the universe. I have no way of even picturing how vast the universe is; the speed of light—186,000 miles per second—still takes some 100 million years to travel between stars. If an atom were extrapolated to the size of a solar system, a string would be the size of a tree on earth. I struggle to even conceive of this and all the while I envy the certainty of preachers, religious fundamentalists or any person with a disposition for staunch certainty. They have, within their understanding, this entire universe, which we lack the vocabulary and imagination to even properly represent, subsumed under a single, perfect explanation. It causes them not a single shred of doubt or uncertainty; it is completely beyond me.

My only solace is indulging in what I love: reading, writing, learning, and most especially literature, like this beautiful book. I am overcome with gratitude and astonishment for having a brain and consciousness capable of appreciating this ever-confounding reality we call home and Calvino, for making it so damn wonderful and fun.

Italo Calvino, in Cosmicomics, writes a philosophical, pseudo-scientific fantasy that attempts, somewhat whimsically, to answer the kind of questions a child might pose: How did the earth begin? Where do we come from? How did language begin? The book charts the path of a character named Qfwfq who roams through emerging galaxies, romps with hydrogen atoms, and, in general, makes observations about an evolving universe.

Calvino’s book, a landmark of postmodern fiction, depicts a common postmodernist theme: i.e., the “literature of exhaustion,” the sense that we are surrounded by words, drowning in words, and—as a consequence—words are all used up and devoid of meaning. However, Calvino, writing back in the 1960s could hardly have known how prophetic his words would be when related to cyber-space.

In a chapter entitled “A Sign in Space,” Qfwfq, who is in the midst of whisking through the Milky Way, stops and innocently draws a sign, the first sign, in fact, at a point in space, so that he can find his way when he comes around again in about two hundred million years. Qfwfq points out that just the process of making the first sign itself involved considerable leaps of thought. He states that we think of a sign as “something that can be distinguished from something else” when, at that point in existence “nothing could be distinguished from anything …” and there were no previous examples to suggest what a sign might even be.

Qfwfq’s sign, though, creates difference. Where there had been empty space there was now a something, a sign, a symbol that had to be reckoned with. For a long time, his sign remains untarnished. Then, some 600 million years later, as Qfwfq makes his third circuit, he sees that his sign has been crossed out and another sign put next to it, a sign that was obviously a copy of Qfwfq’s original sign. With the sign, its erasure, and the counterfeit sign, the universe’s first dialogue begins. One-upmanship takes over and soon—at least in terms of galactic years—the signs and countersigns begin proliferating at a rapidly escalating pace. Finally, Qfwfq remarks nostalgically:

“In the universe now there was no longer a container and a thing contained, but only a general thickness of signs superimposed and coagulated, occupying the whole volume of space; it was constantly being dotted, minutely, a network of lines and scratches and reliefs and engravings; the universe was scrawled over on all sides, along all its dimensions. There was no longer any way to establish a point of reference.”

In 1965, Calvino could not have known that the mass of signs he describes clogging the universe was an uncanny prediction of the Internet itself where signs and sights/sites grow in increasing numbers in cyber-space. Calvino's tale parallels the type of world in which we now live. The Internet, without exaggeration, really is like a system of signs “superimposed and coagulated, occupying the whole volume of space.” While terms such as the "information highway" imply that the Internet is a gateway to knowledge, I wonder about the ability to concentrate, and achieve any type of knowledge - much less wisdom - in our tech-laden, data-riddled world.



From a prior publication

Θα του βάλω ένα έξτρα αστεράκι επειδή το τελείωσα ενώ με τις συλλογές διηγημάτων έχω περίεργη σχέση. Το λες παραμύθι που σε ταξιδεύει μέσα στο χωροχρόνο, κάπου στην ακρουλα ενός τίποτα βλέπεις τη δημιουργία του κόσμου. Δεν με κέρδισε όμως. Πιο αγαπημένο διήγημα ήταν 'Οι δεινόσαυροι'. Έτσι παράμ παπάμ έχουμε 3 αστεράκια.