Finished reading a novel that I never thought i’d ever get to finish; and after doing so guess i owe an apology; to the novel, to the author for all the uncharitable things i had said previously; alright it might be titanically verbose, esoteric enough to drive good ol Aleister Crowley crazy, filled with manic madness, language, heavens, language heaven forfend anyone should even contemplate using, but for all that its a nice enough read, mind you, not leisurely, not in the least. There are some reads which are a pleasure…….others, in which pleasure be damned, u just wanna know what the hell the darned writer is blabberin abt…..this one falls in the latter category……….still, the thing grows on ya, steadily impresses u with its style and ultimately ensures tht for all its diversions, its the diversions which make the novel………………if you ever wanted an encyclopedia on all sorts of esoteric forms, the mysticism of kabala, afro-brazilian rites, philosophy behind Agarttha, info abt the Comte de Saint-Germain, the Knights Templar, Hassan-al-Sabbah holed up in is fortress at Alamut, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, et al, go for this one………………….go for Foucault’s Pendulum
Really, this book by Eco takes the cake. Its the most fiendishly obtuse book I have ever come across. So much of assorted arcana, literary miscellany in one book does, at times become too much to handle. Started the book around a couple of hours ago and have reached a stage where one of the protagonists has devised a BASIC program (yeah, really!!, the actual code is given) for his word processor. This is nothing compared to what came before that ; ‘isochronal majesty’, ‘sapiential metaphors’, ‘diadactic pretext’, ‘damnation of panta rei’, ‘chthonian world of gas guzzlers’ and whatnot.
And what is even more exasperating is the fact that I was preparing myself for a nice, easy session after my last read, Pamuk’s Black Book. That, in itself, was quite something. And now this. You know, it literally makes you yearn for stuff like Grishams, Baldaccis, Forsyths which you can literally race through without expending either too much of your time or energy.
Still, I’ve got to finish this work so back to Mr. Eco’s unabashedly convoluted semiotic-obsessed arcana which God-alone-knows how manages to masquerade as literature.