This is a sordid, manic, twitching, shameful, tic-ridden fugue novel sweaty with the paranoia and voyeurism that are in the DNA of all detectives and detective stories. It's like Céline and Beckett and Canetti at their most dissociative, and also at their grubbiest and most masturbatory. To be honest I prefer Gombrowicz's earlier fiction, but Cosmos has a sudorific, swivel-eyed charm all of its own. To quote The Cruel Sea, think I need a brain wash.