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

infront of the desk, cluttered with manuscripts, while his hands,trembling with anticipation, caressed the cover of the work heldout 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 thedemon of poetry. Poetry...it consumed Sappho's young years, itnourished Goethe's old age. Drug, the Greeks called it, both poisonand medicine. Naturally, we'll have to read this creation of yours.I always insist on at least three readers' reports, one in-houseand two from consultants (who must remain anonymous; you'll forgiveme, but they are quite prominent people). Manutius doesn't publisha book unless we're sure of its quality, and quality, as you knowbetter than I, is an impalpable, it can be detected only with asixth sense. A book may have imperfections, flaws¡Xeven Svevosometimes wrote badly, as you know better than I¡Xbut, by God, youstill feel the idea, rhythm, power. I know¡Xdon't say it. Themoment I glanced at the incipit of your first page, I feltsomething, but I don't want to judge on my own, though time andagain¡Xah, yes, often¡Xwhen the readers' reports were lukewarm, Ioverruled them, because you can't judge an author without havinggrasped, so to speak, his rhythm, and here, for example, I openthis work of yours at random and my eyes fall on a verse, ¡¥As inautumn, the wan eyelid'...Well, I don't know how it continues, butI sense an inspiration, I see an image. There are times you start awork like this with a surge of ecstasy, carried away. Cela dit, mydear friend, ah, if only we could always do what we like! Butpublishing, too, is a business, perhaps the noblest of all, butstill a business. Do you have any idea what printers charge thesedays? And the cost of paper? Just look at this morning's news: therise 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 theytax returns, the books I don't sell. Yes, I pay even forfailure¡Xsuch is the calvary of genius unrecognized by thephilistines. This onionskin¡Xmost refined of you, if I may say so,to type your text on such thin paper. It smacks of the poet. Thetypical clod would have used parchment to dazzle the eye andconfuse the spirit, but here is poetry written with the heart¡Xthisonionskin might as well be paper money."

The phone rang. I laterlearned that Garamond had pressed a button under the desk, andSignora Grazia had sent through a fake call.

"My dear Maestro! What?Splendid! Great news! Ring out, wild bells! A new book from yourpen is always an event. Why, of course! Manutius is proud,moved¡Xmore, thrilled¡Xto number you among its authors. You sawwhat the papers wrote about your latest epic poem? Noble material.Unfortunately, you're ahead of your time. We had trouble sellingthe three thousand copies..."

Commendatore DeGubernatis blanched: three thousand copies was an achievementbeyond his dreams.

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

"What? At your ownexpense? No, no, it's not the amount. We can hold the costsdown...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, andyou're impatient...Let's try what the Americans call a jointventure. They're always way ahead of us, the Yanks. Drop intomorrow, and we'll do some figuring...My respects and myadmiration."

Garamond seemed to wakeup from a dream. He rubbed his eyes, then suddenly remembered thepresence of his visitor. "Forgive me. That was a writer, a truewriter, perhaps one of the Greats. And yet, for that veryreason...Sometimes this job is humbling. If it weren't for thevocation...But where were we? Ah, yes, I think we've saideverything there is to be said now. I'll write you, hmm, in about amonth. Please leave your work here; it's in good hands."

Commendatore DeGubernatis went out, speechless. He had set foot in the forge ofglory.

39

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

¡XGrades of the Antientand Primitive Memphis-Misraim Rite Manutius was a publishing housefor SFAs.

An SEA, in Manutiuanjargon, 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. Whatoccurred two nights ago in the nave of Saint-Martin-des-Champs hasmade a rent in time, reversing the order of the centuries. Orperhaps it is simply that I have aged decades overnight, or thatthe fear that They will find me makes me speak as if I were nowchronicling a collapsing empire as I lie in the balneum with myveins severed, waiting to drown in my own blood...

An SFA is aself-financing author, and Manutius is a vanity press. Earningshigh, overhead minuscule. A staff of four: Garamond, SignoraGrazia, the bookkeeper in the cubbyhole in the back, and Luciano,the disabled shipping clerk in the vast storeroom in thehalf-basement.

"I've never figured outhow Luciano manages to pack books with one arm," Belbo once said tome. "I believe he uses his