Baudolino
6/10. Okay la. Because Umberto Eco deserved another chance.
Eco’s Baudolino is a story of a 12th century hexagenerian’s life as told to a state historian. It is a twisting epic spanning five decades that transcends genre definition, and not all plots who wander are hopelessly lost. The writing is wicked smart, and peripheral to the story are two of my favourite plot elements, Paris and romantic love.
I picked Baudolino off the shelves at the library with some reluctance, as I found Eco’s Numero Zero to be a 4/10. Given his accolades however, I decided to take another chance on him. It met my expectations: I would read more of his books given the chance.
I appreciate the previous reader of my copy for drawing my attention to something that I generally have a hard time noticing: diction. Every page of the first hundred pages were annotated with pencil, and definitions were scribbled into the margins. As a lazy reader, I rarely search up words that I don’t know, deeming an exact understanding of the definition unnecessary to my enjoyment of the story. Consequently, word choice often eludes my appreciation unless it’s particularly outstanding. The scribbles quickly made me notice to the diction and Eco’s usage of eclectic, sometimes archaic vocabulary. A scan of the first chapter of narrative brings handfuls of words that I do not think I’ve ever seen before unless on the back pages of a Reader’s Digest, four of which Firefox’s spellcheck identifies as misspelt: logthete, basileus, hirsute, debouch, cordax, paten, and friable. A detailed look of context reveals words that would satisfy the most severe of English teachers who demand usage of a thesaurus for a creative writing project: tribulation, engender, mollify, timorous, rapacious, intemperance, dilapidation, and providentially.
Eco’s masterful command of the English language complimented his central theme of storytelling beautifully. The titular character starts in life as a peasant boy who impresses an invading emperor, Frederick I, with his loquacity. He is educated in Paris, then becomes his regent’s most trusted advisor. His service is marked by his uncanny ability to weave tales to: motivate friends, end battles, crown kings, and start quests.
In order to grant Frederick I legitimacy without papal authority, Baudolino dreams up the kingdom of Presbyterian Johannes, a land of abundant treasures and magical creatures. The original plan was to distribute declarations from this Prester John recognizing Frederick I as the successor to the Holy Roman Empire. The second half of the story is founded upon that lie, as Baudolino believes his own tale, and makes the journey towards this imaginary kingdom. Somehow, Eco gets away with this obvious non-sequitur with hypnotizing writing. Or the point is that Baudolino’s tales are so convincing that he himself is duped.
This quest to search for The Kingdom of Prester John becomes more convoluted as other medieval myths get worked in, including the magi, the Blemmyes, and the skiapods. The most fantastic of these is that Baudolino lays claim to inventing the Holy Grail: he takes a bowl that his deceased father has been using all his life, and tells his fellow questers that it is the Holy Grail that they will present Prester John. Along the way however, the bowl is lost, and now they must find it. All of this is told to Niketas, an imperial historian, for the purpose of posterity; it is implied that he carries them forward, consequently creating the myth of the Holy Grail.
Baudolino’s thesis can be summarized by the following quote, spoken by him to a follower of Prester John.
“No, my lord, my friend, the kingdom of your father exists because I have heard it spoken of not by the eunuchs but by people who believe in it. Faith makes things become true; my compatriots believed in a new city, one to inspire fear in a great emperor and the city rose because they wanted to believe in it.”
Within the Baudolino’s fictional world, this is undeniable; his stories of empires and monsters have created real empires and real monsters. As religion plays a large role in Baudolino, an inference can be easily be drawn to religion. Religions, whether someone believes in the doctrine or not, are essentially stories, either from a higher being or an anonymous one. Even the staunchest atheist should be willing to accept that the belief of hundreds of millions in an idea gives it legitimate power, similar to how the belief in the mystical powers of an old bowl transformed and mobilized armies to seek the Holy Grail. Strangely, the core principles of the Abrahamic religions aren’t questioned, but much of their accoutrements are, specifically the relics.
I learned what a relic was in a treasury in a Bavarian castle this year. I was walking around with J, trying to identify what was in the cases. There was a lot of intricate metalwork, and a lot of focus on ivory. We arrived at what looked like a jewel encrusted face mask on a mount, like an overdone festival accessory sitting on a mannequin. But it was too small. They’d fit a child’s head, but these didn’t look like they were for children. Then we looked and noticed there was no hole for a neck. J thought out loud: “Do you think it’s like, decoration for a skull?” A chill passed through the room as we realized that’s exactly what it was. Then the other shoe dropped. All the ivory pieces were bones. We left hurriedly after that, but I noted that the mount that bore the jewel encrusted mask was the head of John the Baptist.
I never questioned this. I knew that he was a biblical figure, and I’ve seen him depicted with baby Jesus, so I assumed that he was a real person who was written into the bible. The skull was clearly and officially labeled. I never had any doubts until I read Baudolino, where we are introduced to seven counterfeit heads of John the Baptist for sale at different times to different buyers, so that each would assume they had a genuine product. A quick Wikipedia search indicates that John the Baptist had one head while alive, but four skulls upon death; the one in the Residenz was just one of four. But what’s to say that any of them, or any relic, are real? Ultimately, it’s the faith in it that makes it legitimate.
Prester John’s kingdom drove Baudolino and his friends to lie, steal, and murder. Stories drive non-fictive people to do worse, even in modern history. All of the ‘ism’s are grand narratives about compel people to act in a certain way, often treating others terribly. In a Western liberal society, there is belief in social mobility, equality before the law, and consent of the governed. A steadfast belief in these ideas leads to various things that would otherwise be unthinkable. Because there is equal opportunity, starving people are acceptable in society, as they should have been working harder. Because justice is blind, everyone who is in prison deserves it, and conditions there can be horrible. Because the people have democratically elected the person in power, they should be able to do as they see fit.
This is a unique period of change, where people are realizing that these tenets of society are wrong. Poor people stay poor. Black people get shot by cops. Rich orange men lock up kids. The narrative is changing, and people are starting to see things for the way that they are.
At the end of the book, Baudolino finally realizes that he has been victim to his own lies. He inadvertently killed his king and his best friend, believing that the former was already dead, and the latter was trying to kill him. These meaningless stories that he spun have caused him to inflict harm unto others because he believed in them. He is distraught and becomes an ascetic.
So there’s a lesson in Baudolino about not telling lies, but more about understanding the repercussions of your actions, regardless of what the narrative might be. This reminds me of a fantasy series that I read a long time ago, wherein there was a story about a society oppressed by a terrible emperor, who enforced capital punishment for the smallest of crimes. One day, a group of sailors arrived, and decided to take down the emperor. When the broke into his castle, they found a desiccated corpse, apparently dead for many years. Instead of celebrating, the people of the society started rioting and committing suicide, because they realize that they have been the ones putting people to death since the emperor died.
I dislike Yuval Noah Harari as much as the next guy, but stories are powerful. It’s tough for people to accept that the narrative is wrong, because it means that they’re at fault. Try to question whatever narrative you’re being fed, because it has power over you. What about this one?
