Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum eco foucault (highly illogical behavior txt) 📖

yesterday. But between the day before yesterdayand this night an eternity has passed.

Toward evening Irealized that I hadn't eaten anything. I wanted quiet, and a littlecomfort. Near the Forum des Halles I entered a restaurant thatpromised fish. There was too much fish. My table was directlyopposite an aquarium. A universe sufficiently surreal to plunge meagain into paranoia. Nothing is accidental. That fish seems anasthmatic Hesychast that is losing its faith and accusing God ofhaving lessened the meaning of the cosmos. Sabaoth, Sabaoth, howcan you be so wicked as to make me believe you don't exist? Theflesh is covering the world like gangrene... That other fish lookslike Minnie; she bats her long lashes and purses her lips into aheart shape. Minnie Mouse is Mickey's fiancee. I eat a salade follewith a haddock tender as a baby's flesh. With honey and pepper. ThePaulicians are here. That one glides among the coral like Breguet'sairplane, a leisurely lepidopteral fluttering of wings; a hundredto one he saw his homunculus abandoned at the bottom of an athanor,now with a hole in it, thrown into the garbage opposite Flamel'shouse. And now a Templar fish, all armored in black, looking forNoffo Dei. He grazes the asthmatic Hesychast, who navigatespensively, frowning, toward the Unspeakable. I look away. Acrossthe street I glimpse the sign of another restaurant, Chez R...Rosie Cross? Reuchlin? Rosispergius? Rachkov-skyragotgkyzarogi?Signatures, signatures...

Let's see. The only wayto discomfit the Devil is to make him believe you don't believe inhim. There's no mystery in your nighttime flight across Paris, inyour vision of the Tower. To come out of the Conservatoire afterwhat you saw, or believe you saw, and to experience the city as anightmare¡Xthat is normal. But what did I see in theConservatoire?

I absolutely had to talkto Dr. Wagner. I don't know why, but I had to. Talking was thepanacea. The therapy of the word.

How did I pass the timetill this morning? I went into a movie theater where they wereshowing Orson Welles' The Lady from Shanghai. When the scene withthe mirrors came, it was too much for me, and I left. But maybethat's not true, maybe I imagined the whole thing.

This morning I calledDr. Wagner at nine. The name Garamond enabled me to get past thesecretary; the doctor seemed to remember me, and, impressed by theurgency in my voice, he said to come at once, at nine-thirty,before his regular appointments. He seemed cordial,sympathetic.

Did I dream the visit toDr. Wagner, too? The secretary asked for my vital statistics,prepared a card, had me pay in advance. Luckily I had my returnticket.

An office of modestsize, with no couch. Windows overlooking the Seine. To the left,the shadow of the Tower. Dr. Wagner received me with professionalaffability. I was not his publisher now, I was his patient. With awide gesture he had me sit opposite him, at his desk, like agovernment clerk called on the carpet. "Et alors?" He said this,and gave his rotating chair a push, turning his back to me. He satwith his head bowed and hands clasped. There was nothing left butfor me to speak.

I spoke, and it was likea dam bursting; everything came out, from beginning to end: what Ithought two years ago, what I thought last year, what ¡E! thoughtBelbo had thought, and Dio-tallevi. Above all, what had happened onSaint John's Eve.

Wagner did not interruptonce, did not nod or show disapproval. For all the response hemade, he could have been fast asleep. But that must have been histechnique. I talked and talked. The therapy of the word.

Then I waited for theword, his word, that would save me.

Wagner stood up very,very slowly. Without turning to me, he came around his desk andwent to the window. He looked out, his hands folded behind hisback, absorbed in thought.

In silence, for ten,fifteen minutes.

Then, still with hisback to me, in a colorless voice, calm, reassuring: "Monsieur, vousetes fou."

He did not move, andneither did I. After another five minutes, I realized that hewasn't going to add anything. That was it. End ofsession.

I left without sayinggood-bye. The secretary gave me a bright smile, and I found myselfonce more in Avenue Elise"e-Reclus.

It was eleven. I pickedup my things at the hotel and rushed to the airport. I had to waittwo hours. In the meantime, I called Garamond Press, collect,because I didn't have a cent left. Gud-run answered. She seemedmore obtuse than usual, I had to shout three times for her to saySi, oui, yes, that she would accept the call.

She was crying:Diotallevi had died Saturday night at midnight.

"And nobody, not one ofhis friends was at the funeral this morning. The shame of it! Noteven Signer Garamond! They say he's out of the country. There wasonly me, Grazia, Luciano, and a gentleman all in black, with abeard, side curls, and a big hat: he looked like an undertaker. Godknows where he came from. But where were you, Casaubon? And wherewas Belbo? What's going on?"

I muttered something inthe way of an explanation and hung up. My flight was called, and Iboarded the plane.

YESOD

118

The conspiracy theory ofsociety... comes from abandoning God and then asking: "Who is inhis place?"

¡XKarl Popper,Conjectures and Refutations, London, Routledge, 1969, iv, p.123

The flight did me good.I not only left Paris behind, I left the underground, the grounditself, the terrestial crust. Sky and mountains still white withsnow. Solitude at ten thousand meters, and that sense ofintoxication always produced by flying, the pressurization, thepassage through slight turbulence. It was only up here, I thought,that I was finally putting my feet on solid ground. Time to drawconclusions, to list points in my notebook, then close my eyes andthink.

I decided to list, firstof all, the incontestable facts.

There is no doubt thatDiotallevi is dead. Gudrun told me so. Gudrun was never part of ourstory¡Xshe wouldn't have understood it¡Xso she is the only one leftwho tells the truth. Also, Garamond is not in Milan. He could beanywhere, of course, but the fact that he's not there and hasn'tbeen there the past few days suggests he was indeed in Paris, whereI saw him.

Similarly, Belbo is notthere.

Now, let's assume thatwhat I saw Saturday night