To read Baudolino (2000)—the tale of a compulsive liar who invents the kingdom of Prester John—is to understand that the lies we tell are often more revealing than the truth. To read The Prague Cemetery (2010) is to see how a single forgery can ignite the fires of fascism.
In the pantheon of modern literature, few figures stand as imposingly—or as playfully—as Umberto Eco. He was a man who wore two hats: one was the flat cap of the medieval philosopher, dusted with the chalk of semiotics; the other was the fedora of the globetrotting novelist, shadowed by the mystery of the library.
But it is worth it. No other author makes you feel smarter about being confused. Eco’s work is the literary equivalent of a cathedral: daunting, dark, filled with hidden chambers and grotesques, and ultimately, a testament to the soaring beauty of the human mind trying to find order in the chaos. umberto eco book
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Eco famously said that The Name of the Rose would have been better if he had included the recipe for laxatives used by the monks, just to annoy the critics. He was joking, but only barely. His books are as much about the texture of the Middle Ages (the mud, the scriptoriums, the herbal remedies) as they are about the plot. If you move beyond his fiction, Eco’s non-fiction is equally vital—and surprisingly visual. Works like The Infinity of Lists and History of Beauty are art-historical journeys. Eco argues that every culture tries to grasp the infinite by making lists: the list of angels, the list of shipwrecks, the list of exotic animals. To read Baudolino (2000)—the tale of a compulsive
To produce a feature on Eco is not to review a single book; it is to attempt a cartography of his labyrinth. It is impossible to discuss Eco without starting in the 14th century. In 1980, at the age of 48, the University of Bologna professor published his first novel, The Name of the Rose . It was a medieval murder mystery set in a benedictine monastery. On paper, it should have been a niche disaster. Instead, it became one of the best-selling novels of all time.
The plot is deceptively simple: Franciscan friar William of Baskerville (a clear nod to Sherlock Holmes) and his novice Adso arrive at a wealthy Italian abbey just as a series of bizarre, apocalyptic deaths begins. The monks are found drowned in vats of pig’s blood or dropped into bathtubs. He was a man who wore two hats:
When Eco passed away in 2016, the world lost not just a writer, but a genre . He is the reason that, for a certain breed of reader, a vacation is not a vacation without a 600-page tome that requires a working knowledge of Latin, the Holy Grail, and the floorplan of a Gothic cathedral.
Eco achieved the impossible here: he wrote a novel about the philosophy of laughter, the nature of signs, and the brutality of the Inquisition, and he disguised it as a thriller. Readers who came for the blood stayed for the semiotics. What makes reading Eco unique is the sensation of drowning in information. In Foucault’s Pendulum (1988)—his ferociously intelligent follow-up—three editors invent a conspiracy theory connecting the Knights Templar to a "Plan." They are so clever that they begin to believe their own lies. The book is a warning against the occult thinking of the internet before the internet existed.
