Foucault’s Pendulum, by Umberto Eco, page 56. Fuck it, fuck him and all his words and his sentences and his names and his dumping every cultural reference he has and the unbearable 1850s-style translation. That’s no way to tell a story, and you really gotta be terminally snob to want to read that. I have other things to do with my time, and I’m returning to more civilized material.
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