[. . .]
“ ‘It is not the same thing!’ William cried sharply. ‘You cannot put the Minorites of the Perugia chapter on the same level as some bands of heretics who have misunderstood the message of the Gospel, transforming the struggle against riches into a series of private vendettas or bloodthirsty follies. . . .’
“‘It is not many years since, not many miles from here, one of those bands, as you call them, put to fire and the sword the estates of the Bishop of Vercelli and the mountains beyond Novara,’ the abbot said curtly.” (Eco 149)
This we will also see in the Borges as the new sect begins destroying the books.
[. . .]
“But perhaps for this very reason, the monks were no longer content with the holy work of copying; they wanted also to produce new complements of nature, impelled by the lust for novelty. And they did not realize, as I sensed vaguely at that moment (and know clearly today, now aged in years and experience), that is doing so they sanctioned the destruction of their excellence. Because if this new learning they wanted to produce were to circulate freely outside those walls, then nothing would distinguish that sacred place any longer from a cathedral school or a city university. Remaining isolated, on the other hand, it maintained its prestige and its strength intact, it was not corrupted by disputation, by the quodlibetical conceit that would subject every mystery and every greatness to the scrutiny of the sic et non. There, I said to myself, are the reasons for the silence and the darness that surround the library: it is the preserve of learning but can maintain this learning unsullied only if it prevents its reaching anyone at all, even the monks themselves. Learning is not like a coin, which remains physically whole even t hrough the most infamous transactions; it is, rather, like a very handsome dress, which is worn out through use and ostentation. Is not a book like that, in fact? Its pages crumble, its ink and gold turn dull, if too many hands touch it. I saw Pacificus of Tivoili, leafing through an ancient volume whose pages had become stuck together because of the humidity. He moistened his thumb and forefinger with his tongue to leaf through his book, and at every touch of his saliva those pages lost vigor; opening them meant folding them, exposing them to the harsh action of air and dust, which would erode the subtle wrinkles of the parchment, and would produce mildew where the saliva had softened but also weakened the corner of the page. As an excess of sweetness makes the warrior flaccid and inept, this excess of possessive and curious love would make the book vulnerable to the disease destined to kill it.
“What should be done? Stop reading, and only preserve? Were my fears correct?” (Eco 184-185)
This section of “The Library of Babel,” is particularly ambiguous, even for Borges. However, we could read this as the extreme love of books, or desire for them, inevitably leading to their destruction. This is an idea we get from Adso, who describes how the use of texts leads to their destruction. He is finally brought to the question: “Stop reading, and only preserve?” The idea seems ludicrous, and thus we have another paradox, where we must destroy in order to learn, but if the books are destroyed, we will become unable to learn. As Borges as already said, the books cannot be destroyed. So, does this mean that it is impossible to learn? Or does it mean, instead, that knowledge is both finite and infinite: that is, the amount of knowledge never changes, thus finite, but it is too great to ever fully be grasped, and thus infinite?
[. . .]
“ ‘Imagine a river, wide and majestic, which flows for miles and miles between strong embankments, where the land is firm. At a certain point, the river, out of weariness, because its flow has taken up too much time and too much space, because it is approaching the sea, which annihilates all rivers in itself, no longer knows what it is, loses its identity. It becomes its own delta. A major branch may remain, but many break off from it in every direction, and some flow together again, into one another, and you can’t tell what begets what, and sometimes you can’t tell what is still river and what is already sea. . . .’ “[. . .] ‘I was trying to explain to you how the body of the church, which for centuries was also the body of all society, the people of God, has become too rich, and wide, and it carries along the dross of all the countries it has passed through, and it has lost its own purity. The branches of the delta are, if you like, so many attempts of the river to flow as quickly as possible to the sea, that is, to the moment of purification. My allegory was meant only to tell you how the branches of heresy and the movements of renewal, when the river is no longer intact, are numerous and become mingled. You can also add to my poor allegory the image of someone who is trying to reconstruct the banks of the river with brute strength, but cannot do so.’” (Eco 198)
[. . .]
“ ‘The movements grow, gathering simple people who have been aroused by other movements and who believe all have the same impulse of revolt and hope; and they are destroyed by the inquisitors, who attribute to one the errors of the other, and if the sectarians of one movement commit a crime, this crime will be attributed to each sectarian of each movement.’” (Eco 200)
As William here describes, each destruction of a heresy only breeds another, only slightly different, but it contains largely the same followers. In this way, the various forms of the texts, with slight differences, that still remain even after a text has been destroyed, are very reminiscent of the heresies. Now the books and those destroying them can be read as the Church and the Inquisitors themselves.
[. . .]
“ ‘But who was right, who is right, who was wrong?’ I asked, bewildered.
“‘They were all right in their way, and all were mistaken.’
“‘And you,’ I cried, in an access almost of rebellion, ‘why don’t you take a position, why won’t you tell me where the truth is?’
“William remained silent for a while, holding the lens he was working on up to the light. Then he lowered it to the table and showed me, through the lens, a tool. ‘Look,’ he said to me. ‘What do you see?’
“‘The tool, a bit larger.’
“‘There: the most we can do is look more closely.’” (Eco 204-205)
The Borges, when read in conjunction with The Name of the Rose, provides a greater insight into the problem of heresy. That is, that it is a variation in interpretation, and therefore no one can be right or wrong. The religions are all based on a text, and therefore meaning changes for everyone who interacts with it. There is no one meaning, which is why it becomes nearly impossible to try and impose one. Here, William’s river metaphor becomes useful:
[. . .]
“ ‘You understand, Adso, I must believe that my proposition works, because I learned it by experience; but to believe it I must assume there are universal laws. Yet I cannot speak of them, because the very concept that universal laws and an established order exist would imply that God is their prisoner, whereas God is something absolutely free, so that if He wanted, with a single act of His will He could make the world different.’
“‘And so, if I understand you correctly, you act, and you know why you act, but you don’t know why you know that you know what you do?’
“I must say with pride that William gave me a look of admiration. ‘Perhaps that’s it. In any case, this tells you why I feel so uncertain of my truth, even if I believe in it.’” (Eco 207)
Here, William points out the fallacy of turning interpretation to belief, since man, by instituting a universal law, thus limits the power of God. Therefore, it is impossible to establish any sort of law. The greater problem is that interpretations are never completely wrong, but those who hold beliefs can be lead to violence:
[. . .]
“I had first heard talk of the Fraticelli in the days when, in Florence, I had seen one burned at the stake.” (Eco 233)
Here, the dispersed heresy, with lingering proponents, seems very reminiscent of the Fraticelli or Pseudo-Apostles in The Name of the Rose. Aside from the one burned at the stake, and the uncovering of Salvatore and Remigio, Adso says that he has seen even more supporters of the Fraticelli, secretly lining the streets:
[. . .]
[. . .]
“I went down into the kitchen. There I saw Bernard Gui. He probably wanted to comprehend the layout of the abbey and was roaming about everywhere. I heard him interrogating the cooks and other servants, speaking the local vernacular after a fashion (I recalled that he had been inquisitor in northern Italy). He seemed to be asking for information about the harvest, the organization of work in the monastery. But even while asking the most innocuous questions, he would look at his companion with penetrating eyes, then would abruptly ask another question, and at this point his victim would blanch and stammer. I concluded that, in some singular way, he was carrying out an inquisition, and was exploiting a formidable weapon that every inquisitor, in the performance of his function, possesses and employs: the fear of others. For every person, when questioned, usually tells the inquisitor, out of fear of being suspected of something, whatever may serve to make somebody else suspect. “For all the rest of the afternoon, as I gradually moved about, I saw Bernard proceed in this fashion, whether by the mills or in the cloister. But he almost never confronted monks: always lay brothers or peasants. The opposite of William’s strategy thus far.” (Eco 302)
Much like the inquisitors flipping through random texts for answers, Bernard immediately begins questioning the unimportant laity at the convent, whom William has avoided, since they are largely irrelevant to the problem at hand. It is interesting to read these two together, because we get the sense that people themselves can serve as a type of text, and this is particularly true in Eco’s work:
[. . .]
"A few feet from the building, I saw Bernard Gui taking his leave of another person, whom I did not immediately recognize. Then, as he passed me, I realized it was Malachi. He looked around like a man not wishing to be seen while committing some crime." (Eco 336)
The literal “inquisitor” of Eco’s work also has secret dealings and conversations with the “local librarian,” here making a mysterious agreement with Malachi to receive the letters from Fra Dolcino that Remigio had given him. It is not revealed what, if anything, Bernard Gui has promised Malachi in return for betraying Remigio. However, it is interesting that this inquisitor and librarian work to root out a heretic, as the mainstream believers will oppose the heresies is Borges. Furthermore, Borges may give us an idea. In “The Library of Babel,” they speak of “galleries and stairs,” and at least circuitously, Bernard discussed the Finae Africani with Malachi, where the letters were stored. Is Bernard also exhausted, perhaps here taking the simplest route to damn a heretic, and has he nearly died on a stairway with no steps?
[. . .]
“ ‘Are there no better arguments,’ I asked my master, as Alborea tugged at the beard of the Bishop of Kaffa, ‘to prove or refute the poverty of Christ?’
“‘Why, you can affirm both positions, my good Adso,’ William said, ‘and you will never be able to establish on the basis of the Gospels whether, and to what extent, Christ considered as his property the tunic he wore, which he then perhaps threw away when it was worn out. And, if you like, the doctrine of Thomas Aquinas on property is bolder than that of us Minorites. We say: We own nothing and have everything in use. He said: Consider yourselves also owners, provided that, if anyone lacks what you possess, you grant him its use, and out of obligation, no charity. But the question is not whether Christ was poor: it is whether the church must be poor. And ‘poor’ does not so much mean owning a palace or not; it means, rather, keeping or renouncing the right to legislate on earthly matters.’” (Eco 345)
Finally, we have the problem of when interpretations become beliefs. As William says:
[. . .]
[. . .]
“ ‘Perhaps we were driven by an overweening love of God, through superabundance of perfection. We were the true spiritual congregation sent by the Lord and destined for the glory of the last days; we sought our reward in paradise, hastening the time of your destruction. We alone were the apostles of Christ, all the others had betrayed him, and Gherardo Segarelli had been a divine plant, planta Dei pullulans in radice fidei; our Rule came to use directly from God. We had to kill the innocent as well, in order to kill all of you more quickly. We wanted a better world, of peace and sweetness and happiness for all, we wanted to kill the war that you brought on with your greed, because you reproached us when, to establish justice and happiness, we had to shed a little blood. . . . The fact is . . . the fact is that it did not take much, the hastening, and it was worth turning the waters of the Carnasco red that day at Stavello, there was our own blood, too, we did not spare ourselves, our blood and your blood, much of it, at once, immediately, the times of Dolcino’s prophecy were at hand, we had to hasten the course of events. . . .’” (Eco 384)
Here we see Borges’ text begin to describe a sect that turns violent, to somehow bring an end to the frustration they have. Likewise, the Fraticelli, as Remigio here describes, felt like they were facilitating the arrival of the Judgement Day. However, the heretical sects are not the only ones who take part in this violence. Bernard is also acting as one of these violent destroyers by rooting out the heretics. If we read heresies as texts, or in the Borges “books,” we get an even greater dialogue between the two works.
[. . .]
“ ‘Benno,’ William then said to me, ‘is the victim of a great lust, which is not that of Berengar or that of the cellarer. Like many scholars, he has a lust for knowledge. Knowledge for its own sake. Barred from a part of this knowledge, he wanted to seize it.’” (Eco 395)
The possibility that knowledge cannot be completely known is impossible for the scholars at the abbey to accept, since they, like Benno, share this lust for knowledge and will commit any sin to achieve it. In this scene, in which William explains why Benno chose personal gain over universal scholarly achievement by becoming Assistant Librarian, we understand the overwhelming feeling of knowing the unknown.
[. . .]