Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum (29 page)

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.

¡XGrades of the Antient
and Primitive Memphis-Misraim Rite Manutius was a publishing house
for SFAs.

An SEA, 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, Signer 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 Signer 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 Ar-denzi 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¡Xthey could even use a pseudonym, like Nerval¡Xwhereas
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 Car-massi 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¡X it would have humiliated
the others¡Xbut your work, it's sublime. Not only were the readers'
reports enthusiastic¡Xno, more, favorable¡Xbut 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¡Xnow well worn by the loving
attention of at least four readers (rumpling the manuscripts is
Signora Grazia's job)¡Xand stare at the SFA with a puzzled
expression. ¡¥What shall we do with it?' And ¡¥What shall we do
with it?' De 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¡Xor, 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 oif (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 oifer 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.' "

Later I saw the standard
contract that De Gubernatis, now on his poetic trip, would sign
without even reading, while Signor Garamond's bookkeeper loudly
protested that the costs had been grossly underestimated. Ten pages
of clauses in eight-point type: foreign rights, subsidiary rights,
dramatizations, radio and television serialization, film rights,
Braille editions, abridgments for Reader's Digest, guarantees
against libel suits, all disputes to be settled by Milan courts.
The SFA, lost in dreams of glory, would not notice the clause that
specified a maximum print run of ten thousand but mentioned no
minimum or the clause that said the amount to be paid by the author
was independent of the print run (which was agreed upon only
verbally), or the clause that said¡Xmost important of all¡Xthat the
publisher had the right to pulp all unsold copies after one year
unless the author wished to buy them at half the list price. Sign
on the dotted line.

The launching would be
lavish. Ten-page press releases, with biography and critical
essays. No modesty; the newspaper editors would toss them out
anyway. The actual printing: one thousand copies, of which only
three hundred and fifty would be bound. Two hundred to the author,
about fifty to minor or associated bookshops, fifty to provincial
magazines, about thirty to the newspapers, just in case they needed
to fill a couple of lines in the Books Received column. These
copies would later be given as donations to hospitals or
prisons¡Xand you can see why the former don't heal and the latter
don't redeem.

In summer the
Petruzzellis della Gattina Prize, a Garamond creation, would be
awarded. Total cost: two days' meals and lodging for the jury, plus
a Nike of Samothrace, in vermeil, for the winner. Congratulatory
telegrams from other Manutius authors.

Finally, the moment of
truth. A year and a half later, Garamond writes: Dear friend, as I
feared, you are fifty years ahead of your time. Rave reviews in the
dozens, awards, critical acclaim, ca va sans dire. But few copies
sold. The public is not ready. We are forced to make space in the
warehouse, as stipulated in the contract (copy enclosed). Unless
you exercise your right to buy the unsold copies at half the list
price, we must pulp them.

De Gubernatis goes mad
with grief. His relatives console him: People just don't understand
you, of course if you belonged to the right clique, if you sent the
requisite bribe, by now they'd have reviewed you in the Corriere
della Sera, it's all Mafia, you have to hold out. Only five
author's copies are left, and there are still so many important
people to whom the work should go. You can't allow your writing to
be pulped, recycled into toilet paper. Let's see how much we can
scrape together, maybe we can buy back five hundred copies, and for
the rest, sic transit gloria mundi.

Manutius still has six
hundred and fifty copies in unbound sheets. Signor Garamond has
five hundred of them bound and shipped, COD. The final balance: the
author paid the production costs for two thousand copies, Manutius
printed one thousand and bound eight hundred and fifty, of which
five hundred were paid for a second time. About fifty authors a
year, and Manutius always ends up well in the black. And without
remorse: Manutius is dispensing happiness.

Cowards die many times
before their deaths.

¡XShakespeare, Julius
Caesar, II, 2

I was always aware of a
conflict between Belbo's devotion in working with his respectable
Garamond authors, his efforts to get from them books he could be
proud of, and the piratical zeal with which he contributed to the
swindling of the hapless Manutius authors, even referring to Via
Marchese Gualdi those he considered unsuitable for Garamond, as I
had seen him attempt to do with Colonel Ardenti.

Working with Belbo, I
often wondered why he accepted this arrangement. I don't think it
was the money. He knew his trade well enough to find a
better-paying position.

For a long time I
thought he did it because it enabled him to pursue his study of
human folly from an ideal observation point. As he never tired of
pointing out, he was fascinated by what he called stupidity¡Xthe
impregnable paralogism, the insidious delirium hidden behind the
impeccable argument. But that, too, was a mask. It was Diotallevi
who did it for fun, or perhaps hoping that a Manutius book might
someday offer an unprecedented combination of the Torah. And I,
too, participated, for the amusement, the irony, out of curiosity,
especially after Garamond launched Project Hermes.

For Belbo it was a
different story. This became clear to me after I went into his
files.

FILENAME:
Vendetta

She simply arrives. Even
if there are people in the office, she grabs me by my lapels,
thrusts her face forward, and kisses me. How does that song go?
"Anna stands on tiptoe to kiss me." She kisses me as if she were
playing pinball.

She knows it embarrasses
me. Puts me on the spot.

She never
lies.

I love you, she
says.

See you
Sunday?

No. I'm spending the
weekend with a friend...

A girlfriend,
naturally.

No, a man friend. You
know him. He's the one who was at the bar with me last week. I
promised. You wouldn't want me to break my promise?

Don't break your
promise, but don't come here to make me...Please, I have an author
coming in.

A genius to
launch?

A poor bastard to
destroy.

A poor bastard to
destroy.

I went to pick you up at
Pilade's. You weren't there. I waited a long time, then I went by
myself; otherwise the gallery would have been closed. Somebody
there told me you had all gone on to the restaurant. I pretended to
look at the pictures, though they tell me art's been dead since
Holderlin. It took me twenty minutes to find the restaurant,
because dealers always pick ones that are going to become famous
next month.

You were there, among
the usual faces, and beside you was the man with the scar. You
weren't the least embarrassed. You looked at me with complicity
and¡Xhow do you manage both at the same time?¡X defiance, as if to
say: So what? The intruder with the scar looked me up and down, as
if I, not he, were the intruder. The others, in on the story,
waited. I should have found an excuse to pick a fight. I'd have
come out of it well, even if he hit me. Everybody knew you were
there with him to provoke me. My role was assigned. One way or the
other, I was to put on a show.

Since there had to be a
show, I chose drawing-room comedy. I joined the conversation,
amiable, hoping someone would admire my control.

The only one who admired
me was me.

You're a coward when you
feel you're a coward.

The masked avenger. As
Clark Kent I take care of misunderstood young geniuses; as Superman
I punish justly misunderstood old geniuses. I collaborate in the
exploitation of those who, lacking my courage, have been unable to
confine themselves to the role of spectator.

Is this possible? To
spend a life punishing people who will never know they have been
punished? So you wanted to be a Homer, eh? Take that, wretch, and
that!

I hate anyone who tries
to see me as an illusion of passion.