Foucault's Pendulum

by Umberto Eco

  We were received promptly by Signora Grazia, bland and matronly, her designer scarf and suit the exact color of the walls. With a guarded smile she showed us into an office that recalled Mussolini's.

  The room was not so immense, but it suggested that hall in the Palazzo Venezia. Here, too, there was a globe near the door, and at the far end the mahogany desk of Signor Garamond, who seemed to be looking at us through reversed binoculars. He motioned us to approach, and I felt intimidated. Later, when De Gubernatis came in, Garamond got up and went to greet him, an act of cordiality that enhanced even more the publisher's importance. The visitor first watches him cross the room, then crosses it himself, arm in arm with his host, and as if by magic the space is doubled.

  Garamond waved us to seats opposite his desk. He was brusque but friendly: "Dr. Belbo speaks highly of you, Dr. Casaubon. We need good men. You realize, of course, we're not putting you on the staff. Can't afford it. But you'll be well paid for your efforts. For your devotion, if I may say so, because I consider our work a mission."

  He mentioned a flat fee based on estimated hours of work; it seemed reasonable for those times. I accepted.

  "Excellent, Casaubon." Now that I was an employee, the title disappeared. "This history of metals," he went on, "must be splendid—more, a thing of beauty. Popular, but scholarly, too. It must catch the reader's imagination. An example. Here in the first draft there is mention of these spheres—what were they called? Yes, the Magdeburg hemispheres. Two hemispheres which, when put together and the air is pumped out, create a pneumatic vacuum inside. Teams of draft horses are hitched to them and they pull in opposite directions. The horses can't separate the hemispheres. This is scientific information. But it's special, it's picturesque. You must single it out from all the other information, then find the right image—a fresco, an oil, whatever—and we'll give it a full page, in color."

  "There's an engraving I know of," I said.

  "You see? Bravo! A whole page. Full color."

  "Since it's an engraving, it'll have to be in black and white," I said.

  "Really? Fine, black and white it is. Accuracy above all. But against a gold background. It has to strike the reader, make him feel he's there on the day the experiment was carried out. See what I mean? Science, realism, passion. With science you can grab the reader by the throat. What could be more dramatic than Madame Curie coming home one evening and seeing that phosphorescent glow in the dark? Oh, my goodness, whatever can that be? Hydrocarbon, golconda, phlogiston, whatever the hell they called it, and voilá, Marie Curie invents X rays. Dramatize! But with absolute respect for the truth."

  "What connection do X rays have with metals?" I asked.

  "Isn't radium a metal?"

  "Yes."

  "Well then. The entire body of knowledge can be viewed from the standpoint of metals. What did we decide to call the book, Belbo?"

  "We were thinking of something sober, like Metals."

  "Yes, it has to be sober. But with that extra hook, that little detail that tells the whole story. Let's see... Metals: A World History. Are there Chinese in it, too?"

  "Yes."

  "World, then. Not an advertising gimmick: it's the truth. Wait, I know: The Wonderful Adventure of Metals."

  It was at that moment Signora Grazia announced the arrival of Commendatore De Gubernatis. Signor Garamond hesitated, gave me a dubious look. Belbo made a sign, as if to say that I could be trusted. Garamond ordered the guest to be shown in and went to greet him. De Gubernatis wore a double-breasted suit, a rosette in his lapel, a fountain pen in his breast pocket, a folded newspaper in his side pocket, a leatherette briefcase under his arm.

  "Ah, my dear Commendatore," Garamond said, "come right in. Our dear friend De Ambrosiis told me all about you. A life spent in the service of the state. And a secret poetic vein, yes? Show me, show me the treasure you hold in your hands.... But first let me introduce two of my senior editors."

  He seated the visitor in front of the desk, cluttered with manuscripts, while his hands, trembling with anticipation, caressed the cover of the work held out to him. "Not a word. I know everything. You come from Vitipeno, that great and noble city. You were in the customs service. And, secretly, night after night, you filled these pages, fired by the demon of poetry. Poetry ... it consumed Sappho's young years, it nourished Goethe's old age. Drug, the Greeks called it, both poison and medicine. Naturally, we'll have to read this creation of yours. I always insist on at least three readers' reports, one in-house and two from consultants (who must remain anonymous; you'll forgive me, but they are quite prominent people). Manutius doesn't publish a book unless we're sure of its quality, and quality, as you know better than I, is an impalpable, it can be detected only with a sixth sense. A book may have imperfections, flaws—even Svevo sometimes wrote badly, as you know better than I—but, by God, you still feel the idea, rhythm, power. I know—don't say it. The moment I glanced at the incipit of your first page, I felt something, but I don't want to judge on my own, though time and again—ah, yes, often—when the readers' reports were lukewarm, I overruled them, because you can't judge an author without having grasped, so to speak, his rhythm, and here, for example, I open this work of yours at random and my eyes fall on a verse, 'As in autumn, the wan eyelid'...Well, I don't know how it continues, but I sense an inspiration, I see an image. There are times you start a work like this with a surge of ecstasy, carried away. Cela dit, my dear friend, ah, if only we could always do what we like! But publishing, too, is a business, perhaps the noblest of all, but still a business. Do you have any idea what printers charge these days? And the cost of paper? Just look at this morning's news: the rise of the prime rate on Wall Street. Doesn't affect us, you say? Ah, but it does. Do you know they tax even our inventory? And they tax returns, the books I don't sell. Yes, I pay even for failure—such is the calvary of genius unrecognized by the philistines. This onionskin—most refined of you, if I may say so, to type your text on such thin paper. It smacks of the poet. The typical clod would have used parchment to dazzle the eye and confuse the spirit, but here is poetry written with the heart—this onionskin might as well be paper money."

  The phone rang. I later learned that Garamond had pressed a button under the desk, and Signora Grazia had sent through a fake call.

  "My dear Maestro! What? Splendid! Great news! Ring out, wild bells! A new book from your pen is always an event. Why, of course! Manutius is proud, moved—more, thrilled—to number you among its authors. You saw what the papers wrote about your latest epic poem? Nobel material. Unfortunately, you're ahead of your time. We had trouble selling the three thousand copies...."

  Commendatore De Gubernatis blanched: three thousand copies was an achievement beyond his dreams.

  "Sales didn't cover the production costs. Take a look through the glass doors and you'll see how many people I have in the editorial department. For a book to break even nowadays I have to sell at least ten thousand copies, and luckily I sell more than that in many cases, but those are writers with—how shall I put it?—a different vocation. Balzac was great, and his books sold like hotcakes; Proust was equally great, but he published at his own expense. You'll end up in school anthologies, but not on the stands in train stations. The same thing happened to Joyce, who, like Proust, published at his own expense. I can allow myself the privilege of bringing out a book like yours once every two or three years. Give me three years' time..." A long pause followed. An expression of pained embarrassment came over Garamond's face.

  "What? At your own expense? No, no, it's not the amount. We can hold the costs down.... But as a rule Manutius doesn't ... Of course, you're right, even Joyce and Proust ... Of course, I understand...."

  Another pained pause. "Very well, we'll talk about it. I've been honest with you, and you're impatient.... Let's try what the Americans call a joint venture. They're always way ahead of us, the Yanks. Drop in tomorrow, and we'll do some figuring.... My respects and my admiration."

  Garamo
nd seemed to wake from a dream. He rubbed his eyes, then suddenly remembered the presence of his visitor. "Forgive me. That was a writer, a true writer, perhaps one of the Greats. And yet, for that very reason ... Sometimes this job is humbling. If it weren't for the vocation ... But where were we? Ah, yes, I think we've said everything there is to be said now. I'll write you, hmm, in about a month. Please leave your work here; it's in good hands."

  Commendatore De Gubernatis went out, speechless. He had set foot in the forge of glory.

  39

  Doctor of the Planispheres, Hermetic Philosopher, Grand Elect of the Eons, Knight Prince of the Rose of Heredom, Grand Master of the Temple of Wisdom, Knight Noachite, Wise Siviast, Knight Supreme Commander of the Stars, Sublime Sage of the Zodiac, Shepherd King of the Hutz, Interpreter of Hieroglyphs, Sage of the Pyramids, Sublime Titan of the Caucasus, Orphic Doctor, Sublime Skald, Prince Brahmin, Guardian of the Three Fires.

  —Grades of the Antient and Primitive Memphis-Misraim Rite

  Manutius was a publishing house for SFAs.

  An SFA, in Manutiuan jargon, was ... But why do I use the past tense? SFAs still exist, after all. Back in Milan, all continues as if nothing has happened, and yet I cast everything into a tremendously remote past. What occurred two nights ago in the nave of Saint-Martin-des-Champs has made a rent in time, reversing the order of the centuries. Or perhaps it is simply that I have aged decades overnight, or that the fear that They will find me makes me speak as if I were now chronicling a collapsing empire as I lie in the balneum with my veins severed, waiting to drown in my own blood....

  An SFA is a self-financing author, and Manutius is a vanity press. Earnings high, overhead minuscule. A staff of four: Garamond, Signora Grazia, the bookkeeper in the cubbyhole in the back, and Luciano, the disabled shipping clerk in the vast storeroom in the half-basement.

  "I've never figured out how Luciano manages to pack books with one arm," Belbo once said to me. "I believe he uses his teeth. However, he doesn't have all that much packing to do. Normal publishers ship to booksellers, but Luciano ships only to authors. Manutius isn't interested in readers.... The main thing, Signor Garamond says, is to make sure the authors remain loyal to us. We can get along fine without readers."

  Belbo admired Signor Garamond. He felt the man possessed a strength that he himself lacked.

  The Manutius system is very simple. A few ads are placed in local papers, professional magazines, provincial literary reviews, especially those that tend to survive for only a few issues. Medium-size announcements, with a photograph of the author and a few incisive lines: "A lofty voice in our nation's poetry," or "The latest narrative achievement by the author of Floriana and Her Sisters."

  "At this point the net is cast," Belbo explained, "and the SFAs fall into it in clumps, if you can fall into a net in clumps."

  "And then?"

  "Well, take De Gubernatis for example. A month from now, as our retired customs official writhes with anxiety, a call from Signor Garamond will invite him to dinner with a few writers. They'll meet in the latest Arab restaurant: very exclusive, no sign outside, you ring the bell and give your name through a peephole. Deluxe interior, soft lights, exotic music. Garamond will shake the maitre d's hand, call the waiters by-name, and send back the first bottle of wine because the vintage isn't right. Or else he'll say, 'Excuse me, old friend, but this isn't couscous the way we eat it in Marrakesh.' De Gubernatis will be introduced to Inspector X; all the airport services are under his command, but his real claim to fame is that he is the inventor and apostle of Cosmoranto, the language of universal peace now being considered by UNESCO. There's also Professor Y, a remarkable storyteller, winner of the Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize in 1980, but also a leading figure in medical science. How many years did you teach, Professor? Ah, those were other times; education then was taken seriously. And finally, our charming poetess, the exquisite Odolinda Mezzofanti Sassabetti, author of Chaste Throbs, which you've surely read."

  Belbo told me that he had long wondered why all female SFAs used a double surname: Lauretta Solimeni Calcanti, Dora Ardenzi Fiamma, Carolina Pastorelli Cefalu. Why was it that important women writers had just one surname (except for Ivy Compton-Burnett) and some (like Colette) had none at all, while an SFA felt the need to call herself Odolinda Mezzofanti Sassabetti? Perhaps because real writers wrote out of love of the work and didn't care whether they were known—they could even use a pseudonym, like Nerval—whereas an SFA wanted to be recognized by the family next door, by the people in her neighborhood, and in the neighborhood where she used to live. For a man, one surname is enough, but not for a woman, because there are some who knew her before her marriage and some who only met her afterward. Hence the need for two.

  "Anyway," Belbo went on, "it is an evening rich in intellectual experiences. De Gubernatis will feel as if he's drained an LSD cocktail. He'll listen to the gossip of his fellow-guests, hear a tasty anecdote about a great poet who is notoriously impotent, and not worth that much as a poet either. He'll look, eyes glistening with emotion, at the latest edition of the Encyclopedia of Illustrious Italians, which Garamond will just happen to have on hand, to show Inspector X the appropriate page (You see, my dear friend, you, too, have entered the pantheon; ah, it is mere justice)."

  Belbo showed me the encyclopedia. "Just an hour ago I was preaching at you, but nobody is innocent. The encyclopedia is compiled exclusively by Diotallevi and me. But I swear we don't do it just for the money. It's one of the most amusing jobs there is. Every year we have to prepare a new, updated edition. It works more or less this way: you include an entry on a famous writer and an entry on an SFA, making sure they're in alphabetical proximity. And you don't waste space on the famous name. See, for example, under L."

  LAMPEDUSA, Giuseppe Tomasi di (1896–1957). Sicilian writer. Long ignored, achieved fame posthumously for his novel The Leopard.

  LAMPUSTRI, Adeodato (1919– ). Writer, educator, veteran (Bronze Star, East Africa), thinker, novelist, and poet. Looms large on the contemporary Italian literary scene. Lampustri's talent was revealed in 1959 with the publication of The Carmassi Brothers, volume one of a trailblazing trilogy. Narrated with unrelenting realism and noble poetic inspiration, the novel tells of a fisherman's family in Lucania. The Carmassi Brothers won the Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize in 1960 and was followed a few years later by The Dismissed and Panther Without Eyelashes, both of which, perhaps even more than the author's initial work, exhibit the epic sweep, the dazzling plastic invention, the lyrical flow that distinguish this incomparable artist. A diligent ministry official, Lampustri is esteemed by those who know him as a man of upright character, an exemplary father and husband, and a stunning public speaker.

  "De Gubernatis," Belbo explained, "will want to appear in the encyclopedia. He's always said that the fame of the famous was a fraud, a conspiracy on the part of obliging critics. But, chiefly, he will want to join a family of writers who are also directors of state agencies, bank managers, aristocrats, magistrates. Appearing in the encyclopedia, he will expand his circle of acquaintances. If he needs to ask a favor, he'll know where to turn. Signor Garamond has the power to lift De Gubernatis out of the provinces and hurl him to the summit. Toward the end of the dinner, Garamond will whisper to him to drop by the office the next morning."

  "And the next morning, he comes."

  "You can bet on it. He'll spend a sleepless night, dreaming of the greatness of Adeodato Lampustri."

  "And then?"

  "Garamond will say to him: 'Yesterday, I didn't dare speak—it would have humiliated the others—but your work, it's sublime. Not only were the readers' reports enthusiastic—no, more, favorable—but I personally spent an entire night poring over these pages of yours. A book worthy of a literary prize. Great, really great.' Then Garamond will go back to his desk, slap the manuscript—now well worn by the loving attention of at least four readers (rumpling the manuscripts is Signora Grazia's job)—and stare at the SFA with a puzzled e
xpression. 'What shall we do with it?' And 'What shall we do with it?' Dc Gubernatis will ask. Garamond will say that the work's value is beyond the slightest dispute. But clearly it is ahead of its time, and as for sales, it won't do more than two thousand copies, twenty-five hundred tops. Well, two thousand more than covers all the people De Gubernatis knows, and an SFA doesn't think in planetary terms—or, rather, his planet consists of familiar faces: schoolmates, bank managers, fellow teachers in the high school, retired colonels. The SFA wants to bring his poetry to all these people, even to those who couldn't care less, like the butcher or the prefect of police. Faced by the risk that Garamond might back off (and remember: everybody at home, in town and office, knows that De Gubernatis has submitted his manuscript to a big Milan publisher), he will make some quick calculations. He could empty his savings account, take out a loan against his pension, mortgage the house, cash in those few government bonds. Paris is well worth a mass. Shyly, he will offer to underwrite some of the costs. Garamond will look upset. 'That is not the usual practice of Manutius, but, well, all right, it's a deal, you've talked me into it, even Proust and Joyce had to bow to harsh necessity. The costs are so high, for the present we'll plan on two thousand copies, though the contract will provide for up to ten thousand. You'll receive two hundred author's copies, to send to anyone you like, another two hundred will be review copies, because we want to promote the book as if this were the new Stephen King. That leaves sixteen hundred for commercial distribution. On these, obviously, no royalties for you, but if the book catches on and we go into a second printing, you'll get twelve percent.'"