Bookstorm

I don't remember your name, but I'll never forget when I first saw you: sophomore year. You were reading Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales while waiting for Spanish class to start. You're still one of the sexiest girls I've ever seen.

After putting everyone's names in a hat, I drew two clear winners: Dorothy, who won a copy of Donna Tartt's The Secret History, and Rachel, who won a copy of Umberto Eco's Baudolino. Congratulations, ladies. E-mail me with your mailing addresses and the books will be on their way by mid-week.

Thanks to everyone for entering the giveaway. There will be other chances for you to win more books. I promise.

Sometimes I find myself preparing for those moments that may never come.

To wit: I've been reading Matthew Pearl's The Dante Club, and that, in turn, has prompted me to dust off my old Dante volumes--particularly the Inferno--in order to memorize the inscription over the entrance to hell:

Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye.

Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.

Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

I've never been asked to recite poetry, and I confess that my knowledge regarding poetry is shaky at best, but lately I've been thinking it would be nice--if not particularly helpful--to have some verses memorized, should I ever be called upon to seem a bit more intelligent than I really am. The Inferno is rather gruesome and depressing, but my regular readers are probably well aware of my oddball sense of humor and my reluctance to fall back on things that might easily impress those of the opposite sex.

If, however, you are easily impressed by love poetry, I submit, for your consideration, a sonnet by Thomas Lodge:

No stars her eyes to clear the wandering night,
But shining suns of true divinity,
That make the soul conceive her perfect light!
No wanton beauties of humanity,
Her pretty brows, but beams that clear the sight
Of him that seeks the true philosophy!
No coral is her lip, no rose her fair,
But even that crimson that adorns the sun.
No nymph is she, but mistress of the air,
By whom my glories are but new begun.
But when I touch and taste as others do,
I then shall write, and you shall wonder too.

Just don't ask me to recite that out loud.

You like free books, don't you?

Of course you do.

And what kind of literary blog would this be if I didn't have a book giveaway? (Go ahead and say it: Not a great one.) But let's get down to business: I have two books--a hardcover, like-new copy of Umberto Eco's Baudolino and a paperback, like-new copy of Donna Tartt's The Secret History--that are yours for the taking. So do your homework. Decide which one you want. Then put on your thinking caps. If you want Baudolino, leave a comment or write a blog post about your favorite translated novel. If you're interested in The Secret History, leave a comment or write a blog post about your favorite Greek god or goddess. Then I'll draw names out of a hat--one name for Baudolino and another name for The Secret History--and announce the winners next Sunday.

It should be noted that if one person chooses both books, he or she will be automatically disqualified.

You have a week and a day. Go!

I first encountered Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose three years ago, when my reading tastes were just beginning to change. I was bored with popular thrillers while remaining reluctant to let them go. They offered a bit of comfort, a way for me to stay within the confines of my comfort zone. I knew what to expect when it came to style and plot, but that same expectation was proving to be distressingly mundane--so much so that I was on the verge of giving up on reading altogether. But so-called "literay novels" intimidated me; I was more concerned with their perceived difficulty and stylistic differences rather than trying to appreciate what they had to offer by way of expanding my horizons. My fear was unfounded, as I later realized: literary novels are more involved, but that's never an indicator that a book harboring that label is especially difficult.

The Name of the Rose caught my interest mostly because I was fascinated by its reputation. I'd heard that it was unfathomably difficult but ultimately rewarding. I'd heard that a quarter of it was written in Latin and that it juxtaposed philosophy and theology--two topics I've always been interested in--against the backdrop of a medieval murder mystery. An intriguing premise, to be sure, but I took it as a challenge of sorts: Surely, I thought, I've read thick, difficult books in the past, so The Name of the Rose should be a cakewalk. If anything, I'd at least be able to say that I read it.

I promptly failed the test.

Postmodernism was a word not yet in my literary vocabulary, and The Name of the Rose was the first postmodern novel I'd ever come across. I focused too much on the book's stylistic quirks and often flipped back to refresh my memory on such terms as matins, terce, and sext. My senses were futher overwhelmed by blocks of text (particularly a long description of a church doorway) and Latin sentences that I'd convinced myself were integral to the plot. (Of course, if I'd bothered to finish reading Eco's introduction, which I found to be puzzling and seemingly pointless, I would've known that the Latin references were placed more for posterity rather than unearthing hidden clues.)

But three years of reading and a steady, unforced maturation in my reading tastes prepared me for The Name of the Rose. Familiarity with authors like James Joyce and Mark Z. Danielewski gave me an insight, if not a concrete definition, of what postmodernism is supposed to be. Experience taught me that The Name of the Rose was a book not to be taken lightly, but it had become my own personal quest: I vowed to read the book that had so handily defeated me years earlier, even if it was the last book I ever read.

Admittedly, I was a bit disappointed the second time around. The Name of the Rose lacks the playfulness that's so evident in Eco's other novels, but there's a certain urgency, despite its complexity, that makes this book faster that anything else the author has written. It's more tightly plotted--the story unfolds over a period of seven days--than Baudolino (which can be taken as a sequel of sorts to The Name of the Rose) and more erudite than Foucault's Pendulum. But like Foucault's Pendulum, I was content to simply let The Name of the Rose wash over me, to let Adso and Brother William guide me through the novel's complexities. Being familiar with Eco's other novels, I knew he wouldn't leave me in the lurch, trying to make sense of the philosophical and theological ideas running throughout.

That's not to say that The Name of the Rose doesn't involve thought on the reader's part. One of the joys of Foucault's Pendulum was the way it involved the reader to a startling degree, but I'd learned to trust Eco--his books always take a while to get into. Sources of light were limited in the Middle Ages and reading The Name of the Rose can be like trying to pick your way through a dark library with no more than a candle: nothing is immediately discernible for more than a few feet. But with Eco as guide, you can be sure that everything is going to make sense in the end.

While it's ostensibly a murder mystery, The Name of the Rose also serves as a look into the lifestyle of monks housed in an unnamed medieval abbey. Eco carefully and meticulously details the routines of a monastic order dedicated to copying, translating, and illuminating--which is to say, illustrating--ancient texts, both Christian and un-Christian. When the supposed suicide of one of the monks occurs days before a historic debate on the poverty of Jesus Christ and his apostles, Brother William of Baskerville arrives to investigate.

William's birthplace is no mistake: he's English and serves as Eco's tribute to Sherlock Holmes--he has an analytical mind and often infuriates his apprentice, Adso, with his hesitation to take immediate action and his willingness to simply let events play out, despite limited time and the violent deaths taking place daily. The Name of the Rose often reads like Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, with its Gothic atmosphere and the layer of thick fog that's always covering the abbey. Everyone is distrustful of each other, and with the arrival of a legation representing the "heresiarch" Pope John XXII, tensions reach a fever pitch.

At the heart of the novel lies the Aedeficium, and its heart, the library, pumps the blood of countless heretical "lies." The labyrinthine stacks are both mesermizing and terrifying, where the builders have gone to ingenious lengths to conceal its secrets. A sense of impending doom runs through The Name of the Rose: gripped by a terror of Apocalyptic proportions, the monks--all of whom may be the killer's next target--try their best to retain some sense of normalcy, but this becomes increasingly difficult as the bodies pile up.

Though The Name of the Rose lacks ihe inventiveness of Foucault's Pendulum, one can see shades of the author Eco would later become. The book seems to taunt the reader with its erudition, as if daring him or her to keep reading. Latin passages crop up in unexpected places, like reminders that readers should be paying attention, but don't be fooled: The Name of the Rose isn't especially difficult. Like the abbey's library, things only appear more difficult than they really are. Compared to Eco's other novels, The Name of the Rose is heavy on plot, and this is where the book stumbles. Where Eco seemed to delight in the "anything goes" nature of Foucault's Pendulum--a book that was limited only by the author's imagination--the plot to The Name of the Rose was lifted straight from Doyle. Eco doesn't shake up the murder mystery, nor does he seem interested in doing so; rather, this book is a vehicle for his own interests, a love letter to books, languages, learning, and the Middle Ages. His passion and knowledge is undeniable, and this is where Eco shines. The Name of the Rose is less a murder mystery than a study in the volatile religious atmosphere of the Middle Ages, where heresy--or any biblical interpretation contary to the doctrines of the Catholic church--was intolerable, where superstition was rampant, and where God was praised more out of fear than love.

The Name of the Rose probably isn't a book for the uninitiated. Eco resides in a world where loyalties often conflict and words and actions carry more weight than is readily apparent. Readers familiar with Baudolino and all its fantastical creatures will recognize passing references to sciapods, blemmyae, and "those whose soles are reversed, so that, following them by their footprints, one arrives always at the place where they came and never where they are going ..." Those familiar with Foucault's Pendulum will recognize not only the complex nature of the plot, but also Eco's fascination with heresy and ancient languages. The Name of the Rose is almost immediately off-putting, but this is Eco, where foreshadowing can force a reader's focus on details, where the plot can become tangled in the wake of quickly-drawn characters and seemingly unrelated events. While it's perhaps not Eco's best novel (I think that honor goes to Foucault's Pendulum), it's a perplexing but ultimately refreshing mystery, one that rewards involvement while giving readers a crash course in the complex theology of the Middle Ages.

Mark Z. Danielewski's Only Revolutions will be available on audio soon. You can listen to several chapters here.

I realize that my disguise, Bookstorm, may be a bit misleading, especially for those who stumble here in search of fresh links and thought-provoking commentary on the latest book trends. My refusal to take the literary high ground is deliberate--I've relied on links and book reviews in the past, but that was more indicative of my own boredom and laziness than anything I was remotely interested in.

A little over a year ago, a good friend of mine told me, "You're a better writer when you're not forcing yourself to stay within the confines of a particular subject." I've tried to stick to her advice, although it's tempting to fall back on old habits, especially when I'm running low on inspiration. Books are wonderful, and I love them, but I've finally admitted that immersing myself in the literary world, via blogs, had an adverse impact on me: I visited my usual blog haunts and emerged feeling as though I'd just spent twelve exhausting hours in a whorehouse. Bring your finger condoms; we're going to MetaxuCafé.

So something strictly book-related isn't what I'm aiming for, and that's mostly to keep my own interest from flagging. But there's a strange sort of excitement in sitting down to write without any notion of how an entry is going to turn out.

School's out, but not for me. I'll be roaring through J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye and Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter--two books I somehow neglected to read in high school--before month's end.