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Tag: umberto eco

Musings on Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco, the thirst for meaning and the recipe for a good novel

This review contains no spoilers, nothing you won’t find out in
the first fifty pages or so.

Why I read the book: I have read The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana before and I
thought it was an amazing idea with the perfect conclusion and terribly dragging
middle. Recently I stumbled upon a comment 
Viktoria left on an old
blog 
post of mine, saying that Foucault’s Pendulum was her favourite Eco
and a much-needed antidote after she pulled through The Da Vinci Code. Too
intriguing a description to ignore.

About the book: Foucault’s Pendulum is a novel by Italian
writer Umberto Eco, translated by William Weaver. Eco spent eight years writing
the book and the years of research is evident in every word.

One of the genres dominating the book world for the past decade
has been thrillers involving secret societies. Foucault’s Pendulum has been
called “the thinking man’s The Da Vinci Code”, as both books no doubt
deal with the same theme, but in remarkably different ways. Foucault’s Pendulum
can be seen as a sort of parody and analysis of our gullibility and constant search
for meaning.

When I read this interview, I delighted in a joke Eco made upon being asked if The Da Vinci
Code was a bizarre little off-shoot of Foucault’s Pendulum, saying he had read
it, but-

“The author, Dan Brown, is a character from Foucault’s
Pendulum! I invented him. He shares my characters’ fascinations – the world
conspiracy of Rosicrucians, Masons, and Jesuits. The role of the Knights
Templar. The hermetic secret. The principle that everything is connected. I
suspect Dan Brown might not even exist.”

Summary: Picture
a quaint Italian bar in Milan. 1970s. Casaubon, a scholar researching the
Knights Templar, meets Jacopo Belbo, a failed writer who has turned to
publishing. Belbo and his cabalist friend Diottalevi are editors at a vanity
press. Casaubon joins the firm as an expert on the history of secret occult
societies.

Bored of reading scholarly manuscripts on far-fetched conspiracy
theories, one day, the three editors decide to invent their own conspiracy. As
a joke. They call it “the Plan.” It is a hoax that connects the
medieval Knights Templar with other occult groups throughout history and
promises existence of a lost treasure. According to the fake Plan, the key to
this treasure lies at a point in a museum in Paris, the place where the
Foucault Pendulum is housed. What starts out as a game becomes all too real
when existing secret groups begin to believe the Plan, going to desperate
measures to track the treasure.

In the present day, where the book opens, Belbo has gone missing
and our narrator Casaubon is in hiding, fearing for his very life…

THEMES Foucault’s Pendulum is more than critique
on history and culture. In the guise of a parody on society, the novel presents
each of our struggles for identity, for purpose. The book talks about that
concept in history and philosophy of the ultimate quest, the true knowledge,
the lost treasure, you name it. It is the idea that has travelled all over the
world and throughout all time, the idea that has always been present. This
concept, the book shows, is what forms secret societies and occult and
religious orders, whether in reality or in the mass imaginations.

The novel dissects conspiracy theories and categorizes them as not
social phenomena but personal ones. The thirst for an all-encompassing answer
is unquenchable, and every individual’s desperation to satisfy an unending
curiosity, an end which is by definition out of reach, is what makes one human.

Most books that revolve around religious cults and secret
societies like the Knights of the Temple use a small twist on the canon and
give an alternate version of history. Admittedly, I have only read a few such
books, other than the Robert Langdon series I remember The Rule of Four by Ian
Caldwell and Dustin Thomason. But what these generally do is weave a legendary
puzzle or prophecy into a modern-day murder mystery or theft and have
anthropologists and semiologists study clues and scriptures to find
solutions.

Most books about conspiracy buffs are books for conspiracy buffs. Because these books become willing participants of the crazy
conspiring instead of questioning its existence. Foucault’s Pendulum does the
latter, its focus lies in discovering the psychological root of secret
societies and occult theories rather than piecing together another hypothesis through scraps of historical evidence. And what better way to
engage in an introspection of the psyche than to take worldly
sceptics and make you watch them transition into reluctant, and soon demented,
believers.

TECHNIQUE (Plot, Characters, Writing Style) I have noticed lately that I get somewhat
Literature-student about certain aspects of fiction. So I have separated my
rants into sections that the weary reader can skip if not interested.

Characters: As I said, this is book about people. Eco
uses great technique to bring out the many facets of his characters. Take for
instance Jacopo Belbo. He is the kind of man I would be instantly attracted to.
He is witty and on the whole, lost in his own erratic world. At Pilade’s, the
bar where the Casaubon meets him, Belbo is the sort that sits in a corner and
judges people. He makes snide jokes with a straight face, does not appear to be
bothered if no one finds them funny. He has opinions, lots of them. Firm and
fixed. He puts on an air of nonchalance, but is in fact very particular and
selective about making his views known. Belbo can be exasperating, often is,
and though he makes a cool sceptic, he lacks any real strength. When he falls
in love, he appears kind of bumbling, under her spell. And yet, in spite or
partly because of his awkward but frequently self-aggrandizing ways, he is a man I would find
charming. I got through
half the book before I realized I had no idea how he looked, I wondered if Eco
had even bothered to describe his appearance, and I didn’t care.

But you don’t only see Belbo through the narrator’s lens.
Interspersed through the narrative are his own writings. These reveal a curious
detail about human behaviour that most of us ignore when reading books – that
you cannot really know a character, unless you have been inside his mind. That any story with only one narrator is essentially incomplete or misleading. In
today’s writing world, multiple points of view or shifting points of view are frowned upon as taking the easy way out. I disagree, and this book
illustrates why. Whereas to the narrator Belbo seems harmlessly frivolous and
whimsical, his self-indulgent pompous raving makes him sound grossly
delusional. And this revelation tells you a little something about Casaubon
too, his point of view becomes clearer when in contrast with another. And
you begin to question his reliability as the narrator. That is an intriguing
approach to character-building, I think.

The women, on the other hand, are something of a problem for me.
I kept expecting more out of Belbo’s muse and recurring lover Lorena Pellegrini
and she failed to capture me till the very end. In a book that has so much to do
with 
personae it is a let-down to find this maudlin a symbol of seductive
womanly wisdom. A quasi-reincarnation of the goddess of love Sophie, Lorenza
is beautiful and decadent, but she never transcends the stereotype. The gorgeous untameable woman supposedly has a discerning intellect, and she does seem to know it but never quite manages to show it. 
You are told over and over that she is the ultimate muse, both “the saint and the prostitute,” but really, Lorenza is just a flimsy paper doll of a character. 

Style: Eco’s writing is vastly exaggerated to mock the pseudo-intellectuality typical of the scholarly world. It is laden with allusions and symbols, reminiscent of The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie. The esoteric
lushness of the prose is not for everybody. However the book avoids sounding pretentious and redeems itself with witty quips on
things each of us can relate to. I read
 this wonderful book review today, which talks about the “good
bits” in books. The reviewer says, “they’re moments of fiction with
the observational acuity, the immediate formal rightness, of a successful joke.
They generate a feeling of surprised recognition by illuminating things we’ve
noticed but never noticed ourselves noticing.” Foucault’s Pendulum is full
of these, which contribute to making more fluid an otherwise
trudging writing style. To illustrate my point, I give you an excerpt from
the point of view of Casaubon – 
That day, I began to be incredulous. Or, rather, I regretted
having been credulous. I regretted having allowed myself to be borne away by a
passion of the mind. Such is credulity.
Not that the incredulous person doesn’t believe in anything. It’s
just that he doesn’t believe in everything. Or he believes in one thing at a
time. He believes a second thing only if it somehow follows from the first
thing. He is nearsighted and methodical, avoiding wide horizons. If two things
don’t fit, but you believe both of them, thinking that somewhere, hidden, there
must be a third thing that connects them, that’s credulity.
Incredulity doesn’t kill curiosity; it encourages it. Though
distrustful of logical chains of ideas, I loved the polyphony of ideas. As long
as you don’t believe in them, the collision of two ideas – both false – can
create a pleasing interval, a kind of diabolus in musica. I had no respect for
some ideas people were willing to stake their lives on, but two or three ideas
that I did not respect might still make a nice melody. Or have a good beat, and
if it was jazz, all the better.



“You live on the surface,” Lia told me years later. “You sometimes seem profound, but it’s only because you piece a lot of surfaces together to create the impression of depth, solidity. That solidity would collapse if you tried to stand it up.”


“Are you saying I’m superficial?”


“No,” she answered. “What others call profundity is only a tesseract, a four-dimensional cube. You walk in one side and come out another, and you’re in their universe, which can’t coexist with yours.”
Plot: Now here lies my greatest issue with the
book. It is not so much a complaint as a question, to you – what would you say is the right
recipe for a good work of fiction? For me,
to be honest, this book made a far greater read than something of the likes of
Dan Brown’s novels – which, I admit, I had thoroughly enjoyed.
Foucault’s Pendulum has a warped ending, that
is all the more disappointing after a tense build up. But I deem books with
absurd plot twists or snail-speed stories, which provide personality and rich
writing, still more worthy of my time than swift but well crafted plots that
allow little space for detailing or self-reflection. But I understand and
appreciate the attraction of either.

I would be a fool to say Foucault’s Pendulum is a better work of
fiction than its quick thrilling contemporaries. It isn’t. Eco is undoubtedly an
erudite thinker and deserving of all his critical and popular acclaim. But, in
my humble opinion, he is not a good storyteller. It wouldn’t wholly surprise me
if people whose tastes usually match mine find The Da Vinci Code better than
Foucault’s Pendulum. Because unlike Eco, Brown has nailed that trick of writing
that makes you stay up late into the night, eyes glued to the book, both
unable to put it down and unwilling to finish it and end the ride. And
storytelling is not easy.

There were multiple times reading this novel when I began to lose
my way in the maze of symbolism and heaving philosophy, and had to put the
book down and rest my eyes and mind. I don’t think it was
simply clunky translation that made me do this. There were pages and pages of
dialogue and description that made me crave for action. I was also aware
throughout that there was much more to glean from the book than one
read would let me. 
All these factors took away some of the sheer abandon and
enjoyment only good fiction can provide. Reading this book felt, at times, like
a chore. In the end, it was worth it, but I wouldn’t lie and say the experience
could not have been better. Perfection to me would be an author who has both, the
storytelling techniques of a thriller writer and the sagacious attention to
detail of a scholar – any suggestions?

According to Eco every detail he has included is crucial to understanding his work. But still fresh in my memory are long
winded monologues, chunks of description, lists of data that made me wish he had had a stricter editor. And it is no
surprise that this was true of the other book I read by Eco
. I really like
Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco, but the staunch philosophizing makes it a
tough book to love. 

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana by Umberto Eco

It took me a very long time to complete this book. I wish it
hadn’t. I wished I’d just left it now and continued or restarted somewhere in
the indefinite future. Maybe then I would have appreciate the stunning ending,
despite the terribly rocky start. I borrowed it from the library and read it,
specifically for The Historical Fiction Challenge.

Summary: The book starts mysteriously, with a man waking from a coma quoting literary character. “What’s you name?” the doctor asks and Yambo, a rare book-dealer solemnly answers, “My name is Arthur Gordon Pym”, followed quickly by a puzzled, “Call me… Ishmael?” Yambo suffers from a strange type of memory loss, in that he remembers every book he has ever read (and he has read many) but could tell you nothing about his family, his wife and daughters, his parents and himself. Yambo determinedly sets off to his childhood home, somewhere in the hills between Milan and Turin, to retrieve his memories; using what he knows best, all the evidences of history: books, prints, songs, poetry. As it turns out, his grandfather is quite the collector.
Let us hop over to the Goodreads summary: “There, in the sprawling attic, he searches through boxes of
old newspapers, comics, records, photo albums, and adolescent diaries. And so
Yambo relives the story of his generation: Mussolini, Catholic education and
guilt, Josephine Baker, Flash Gordon, Fred Astaire. His memories run wild, and
the life racing before his eyes takes the form of a graphic novel. Yambo
struggles through the frames to capture one simple, innocent image: that of his
first love.”

“History is a blood-drenched enigma and the world an error.”

My thoughts: The concept, you have to agree, is amazing. It is a bit unstructured, why Yambo remembers what he remembers is a framework that could easily crumble. But the idea of books, newspapers, old photos and journals reviving your past is fantastically arguable and makes you ponder over the strangeness of memory and association. I am a complete pack-rat and I could still tell you with little certainty what emotions anything in my room would evoke if I lost my memory. Could you imagine that? Trying to remember your past by the objects that you lined it with. I certainly can’t, I’m not me because of those things, and for that; the book and its ending were satisfying. 
However, every ten pages, amazing alternated with horrible. I liked understanding the German poems, deciphering the Italian songs and gazing at the comical old ads and prints. I loved the rich descriptions of feelings and places and memory and fogs in the mind. Eco can really write, paint pictures that could only be described as glorious. However, the journey, the rummaging through old belongings lost its flavour after the first forty belongings. The plot was unruly, it utterly lacked design, was mindbogglingly slow paced and it took me a lot of patience to trudge through to the end. The book hardly moved forward for long patches of time and though Yambo’s thoughts about his condition and about the idea of his past were intriguing, engaging; I soon only wished he’d find something, already! The ending was
perfect, but I was already too tired to appreciate it. The moment I finished reading the last
line, I was glad that it was over; and what does that say about a book?



I still do want to read Baudolino, though. Umberto Eco is an undoubtedly great writer.