In 2005, I had the honor of introducing Umberto Eco, invited by the Florida Center for the Literary Arts at Miami Dade College, promoting his book The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana. The event took place in the spacious auditorium of Building 3, Wolfson Campus, Miami Dade College.
I was greeted by Cristina Nosti and Alina Interián (director). Behind the curtain appeared my idol from my youth in the 1970s: tall, wearing a necktie, with advanced baldness, sporting oval glasses in the style of the 70s. We shook hands and I noticed his plump fingers.
The famous professor of semiotics at the University of Bologna spoke in a slow, raspy, deep voice. I had brought two of my favorite texts with me: Opera Aperta and Foucault’s Pendulum. I asked him to sign them. He invited me to sit next to him. He signed both books. Coffee was served. The atmosphere was cheerful, but without smiles.
“What do you do?” he asked. The subject of philosophy came up.
He began by confessing that teaching was not his vocation.
“Writing requires solitude. Books keep me company and distance me from people.”
“Who is your favorite contemporary philosopher?” He took a sip of coffee.
I threw out a familiar name: Nelson Goodman.
“Anglo-Saxon!” he said, referring to the type of philosophical school.
“Yes, but also very European (I emphasized).
”Phenomenalist and nominalist.“
”Are you referring to the early Goodman?“
”Even the late Goodman (sparkle in his eyes). I don’t know if you know that my book The Name of the Rose owes a lot to nominalism.”
“I’ve read it (I imagined Eco listening to echoes from apse chapels).
”Nominalism is the heretical metaphysics of the Middle Ages. It’s a pity we didn’t have any nominalist heretics in Italy.
“Isn’t having Thomas Aquinas enough? (I knew that Eco had written his doctoral dissertation on the aesthetics of the great medieval philosopher).
The semiotician offers a skeptical sign, while the Montblanc fountain pen scribbles in a notebook.
“I am attracted to medieval heretics. Do you have a favorite heretic?” (He wrote something down in his notebook).
“Ockham and his razor.”
Eco tried in vain to settle into the small chair and adopted a certain parsimony.
“Protean genius. Neither John XXII nor the church could handle him. Let me tell you: I translated a couple of Nelson Goodman’s essays in my college years, the one on the enigma of induction.
”What a coincidence!
“There’s more. Foucault’s Pendulum is dedicated to that remarkable moment in the Middle Ages when nominalism displaced Neoplatonism.”
“The High Middle Ages,” I nodded. “What is your favorite book by Goodman?”
“Ways of Worldmaking. A masterpiece.”
Another sip of coffee and the great humanity seeking comfort in the cumbersome little chair.
“Well, that text is the central theme of my thesis.”
“Another coincidence! Let me tell you: Goodman visited the University of Turin in the early 1970s. He was highly respected in Italy.”
“What a surprise!”
“Have you read The Island of the Day Before?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t bring it with you for me to sign?”
I felt a chill in my calves. I leafed through my notes. I sensed semiotic glances above his Quevedo, halfway up his nose.
“Chapter 34 of the novel is dedicated to Goodman.”
“Re-al-ly?” (It couldn’t be possible that Eco was playing a joke on me).
“Not explicitly,” he said calmly. “It’s titled Monologue on the Plurality of Worlds.” Back to the inquiring gaze from behind the armor.
“I also dedicate a good part of a chapter to him in my Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language.
”Maestro,“ I said nervously, ”it seems that you are the expert on Goodman.
It was then that Eco smiled for the first time. A slow shake of the head followed (and more coffee).
“Not at all. I’m glad we agree.”
Alina Interián called from behind the curtain: “Triff, it’s time! The audience is waiting.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said, my eyes wide.
Eco stood up smiling and slightly hunched over, the little chair hanging from his hips.
“The pleasure is all mine. Buona fortuna.”
