Free Eco: Foucalt's Pendulum by eco umberto foucault

one in my
life, and now I am damned." Find the book of my first communion.
Does it have this illustration, or did I make the whole thing up?
She must have died while thinking of me; I was the impure thought,
desiring the untouchable Mary Lena, she of a different species and
fate. I am guilty of her damnation, I am guilty of the damnation of
all women who are damned. It is right that I should not have had
these three women: my punishment for wanting them.
    I lose the first because
she's in paradise, the second because she's in purgatory envying
the penis that will never be hers, and the third because she's in
hell. Theologically symmetrical. But this has already been
written.
    On the other hand,
there's the story of Cecilia, and Cecilia is here on earth. I used
to think about her before falling asleep: I would be climbing the
hill on my way to the farm for milk, and when the partisans started
shooting at the roadblock from the hill opposite, I pictured myself
rushing to her rescue, saving her from the horde of Fascist
brigands who chased her, brandishing their weapons. Blonder than
Mary Lena, more disturbing than the maiden in the sarcophagus, more
pure and demure than the Virgin¡XCecilia, alive and accessible. I
could have talked to her so easily, for I was sure she could love
one of my species. And, in fact, she did. His name was Papi; he had
wispy blond hair and a tiny skull, was a year older than I, and had
a saxophone. I didn't even have a trumpet. I never saw the two of
them together, but all the kids at Sunday School laughed, poked one
another in the ribs, and whispered, giggling, that the pair made
love. They were probably lying, little peasants, horny as goats,
but they were probably right that she (Marylena Cecilia bride and
queen) was accessible, so accessible that someone had already
gained access to her. In any case¡Xthe fourth case¡XI was out in
the cold.
    Could a story like this
be made into a novel? Perhaps I should write, instead, about the
women I avoid because I can have them. Or could have had them. Same
story.
    If you can't even decide
what the story is, better stick to editing books on
philosophy.

9
    In his right hand he
held a golden trumpet.
    ¡XJohann Valentin
Andreae, Die Chymische Hochzeit des Christian Rosencreutz,
Strassburg, Zetzner, 1616, I
    In this file, I find the
mention of a trumpet. The day before yesterday, in the periscope, I
wasn't aware of its importance. The file had only one reference to
it, and that marginal.
    During the long
afternoon at the Garamond office, Belbo, tormented by a manuscript,
would occasionally look up and try to distract me, too, as I sat at
the desk across from his sorting through old engravings of the
World Fair. Then he would drift into reminiscence, prompt to ring
down the curtain if he suspected I was taking him too seriously. He
would recall scenes from his past, but only to illustrate a point,
to castigate some vanity.
    "I wonder where all this
is heading?" he remarked one day.
    "Do you mean the
twilight of Western civilization?"
    "Twilight? Let the sun
handle twilight. No. I was talking about our writers. This is my
third manuscript this week: one on Byzantine law, one on the Finis
Austriae, and one on the poems of the Earl of Rochester. Three very
different subjects, wouldn't you say?"
    "I would."
    "Yet in all these
manuscripts, at one point or another, Desire appears, and the
Object of Desire. It must be a trend. With the Earl of Rochester I
can understand it, but Byzantine law?"
    "Just reject
them."
    "I can't. All three
books have been funded by the National Research Council. Actually,
they're not that bad. Maybe I'll just call the three authors and
ask them to delete those parts. The Desire stuff doesn't make them
look good either."
    "What can the Object of
Desire possibly be in Byzantine law?"
    "Oh, you can slip it in.
If there ever was an Object of Desire in Byzantine law, of course,
it wasn't what this guy says it was. It never is."
    "Never