The Name of the Rose is Umberto Eco’s first novel, published in 1980. It is, essentially, a whodunnit set in an abbey in 13th century northern Italy. Eco is part historian – part architect – part literary theorist – all awesome. Therefore, one can assume and trust that the material for this book has been meticulously researched and creatively presented. Yes. Truly, a great read – one of those quintessential “hard-to-put-down”-ers - Very appealing. It has been a fantastic way to celebrate the beginning of summer. However, with great resolve I am abandoning The Name of the Rose, and I’m doing it for several reasons. First, reading a novel of this magnitude requires utmost dedication and consistency. This I upheld for two weeks, making my way to the book’s 550-page half-way point. But I have since been distracted by other matters. Days have now gone by since revisiting my friends at that certain medieval Italian abbey. There are heavy things on my mind and I am unable to allot my faculties to these deserving logician monks. They are now strangers of whom I have been removed emotionally, however little. Momentum has been lost. The second reason being that I’m taking the “Studies in American Literature: American Gothic” course this summer, and I will not attempt to mingle these reading duties. It’s one or the other at this point. The likes of Hawthorne, Poe, Melville, James are priority. Plus, it may be a disservice to my precious – oh so precious – intellect to be sloshing together the grounded logical methods of Brother William with the internal dialog of Poe’s characters – characters driven by the logic of madness. Being a parent of a 3 y/o and 5 m/o churns my brain into cream corn enough as it is.
The next reason is that I am stirred by this following excerpt, which just so happens to be the conclusion of the last chapter I’ve read of The Name of the Rose, and therefore a good place to end:
“True,” I said, amazed. Until then I had thought each book spoke of things, human or divine, that lie outside of books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.
“But then, “ I said, “what is the use of hiding books, if from the books not hidden you can arrive at the concealed ones?”
“Over the centuries it is no use at all. In the space of years or days it has some use. You see, in fact, how bewildered we are.”
“And is a library, then, an instrument not for distributing truth but for delaying its appearance?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Not always and not necessarily. In this case it is.”
Indeed. My thoughts turn to my own personal library; imagining that the occupants of these bookshelves whisper and murmur, but do so against me. Here are all these newly-acquired books, purchased at Half-Price or at even greater discount from what the dust jacket or back cover suggests, covering subjects and ideas that I’m interested in. Others are long standing members, authors whose style and content fuel my own personal endeavors into the written word. All of these parchments stand side by side and look out at their owner. What do they observe? The results of which Nibley whispers to Borges who relays to Hawthorne who motions to Hesse who romanticizes to Thompson who contorts to Aristotle, and back again, criss-crossing between upper and lower shelf. Yes, these books murmur. And they do so, in part, against all of those library books that fill my school bag – The Name of the Rose included. Why spend the cash on books only to turn around and sign out others? Illogical. For this reason, I shall return all library materials and give attention to my own humble, mini-library.
Rose is good stuff - It has perked my curiosity in, among other things, medieval heresy and into an overall survey of this history of Northern Italy. It was gratifying to recognize the times when Eco incorporate his theories of semiotics into the plot. But where my interest in these subjects are now just light-hearted whims of fancy, there are other topics, now more concrete, that occupy my mind. Style, rhetoric, semantics, logic, critical theory, self-discipline: These books know this, and they are eager for their owner to web together the knowledge therein – perhaps, even, make a graduate career out of whatever the process of such a webbing may entail. And also for this reason do they grumble. I must appease them.
But, as attractive as books may seem, one mustn’t let them clutter his or her conscience. Consider, then, one of my favorite quotes; a personal law by Hermann Hesse, one whose message is far more critical in application than anything any book may suggest or whisper in advice to another.
“I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; It has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams—like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.”
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