Peer Pressure?

One problem with me is I’m the type of person who has to read all the books you’re “supposed to” read. I don’t just read for pleasure. Or knowledge for that matter. It’s true I read for both those reasons primarily, mostly just because I love it. But there’s also this streak in me that reads novels simply because people who read certain novels are distinguished, respected, and intellectually superior. And that’s lame. It doesn’t always work out either.

My latest example: Foucault’s Pendulum by intellectual of intellectuals Umberto Eco. Now trust me, I don’t know much about Mr. Eco. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. (Update, just googled him, he is). My first encounter with his work was when my brother, generally a reliable source for cool things to consume, bought me “The Name of the Rose” for my birthday. Or was it Christmas? I’m not very good at giving gifts. I just don’t care about them. I think the odd consequence of this is I’m always afraid of undervaluing other people’s gifts. If you give me something, I’ll use it. Guaranteed. I’ll try and treasure it to the greatest extent I can, which in some cases isn’t much, but it’s still as much as possible. So the surest way for me to try something is to give it to me in gift form. And so that is the reason I slogged through all 400 pages or at least what felt like 400 pages if not more of “The Name of the Rose.” Now, it’s not a bad book. It’s quite good actually. And Eco is obviously one of the intellectual elite. Any man who takes no less than 3 languages (I think it was more actually) to write a mystery novel must either exist on another level or be a complete and total snob. I lost interest in the “The Name of the Rose” quickly but I continued doggedly because this wasn’t just some library book I had grabbed off the shelf.

Well I did get something out of it, and it was fascinating in places (if only because it was so long-winded and confusing). But in the end I know of more profound authors who have a simpler, more accessible style. Let’s just put it that way. So WHY, in heaven’s name WHY did I pick up “Foucault’s Pendulum” while perusing the college library last month? Because Umberto Eco is an intellectual and I can feel superior or at least equal to all my intellectually superior friends (of whom I have ever so many **sarcasm**) by saying “oh yes, I read ‘Foucault’s Pendulum’ last week. Marvelous just marvelous, wouldn’t you agree? What did you think of the symbolism of such and such on page 247? I find it to be rather existential myself.” Which is complete and utter crap. I really have very little patience with that sort of thing, except I’m so afraid of being considered ignorant that I don’t dare tell anyone so. I read a few reviews of Foucault’s Pendulum before taking the plunge and all said the same thing: that it was a wonderful piece of work, clever, witty, profound and all the rest. And I wasted hours of my life wading through all of Eco’s obscure references and multilingual banter, because I kept thinking “ah! I’m just on the verge of understanding the point behind this monster of a book!” And it does have a point behind it and I kind of vaguely get it but at this point I don’t really care. Whenever you haven’t figured out if you like a book and you’re 2/3rds of the way through, chances are you don’t. So much for my intellectual superiority. I have no idea why the text is gradually getting bigger!