47	OBITUARIES THREE: ECO

With Umberto Eco it’s a whole other story.

Even though I couldn’t write his obit, because I don’t believe he has said anything new in philosophy. He has made advances in semiotics, but since I don’t understand anything about semiotics, I’d still be unable to write a word.

Eco finished his degree with Pareyson before I did. He jumped through the same hoops I did. But our common master didn’t back him for a full professorship. Indeed, when I won the competition for the chair in esthetics, Eco was a participant.

I tried to keep things cordial between Pareyson and Eco, but Pareyson kept complaining about him. He was very susceptible about personal things. Umberto had a bit of a sharp tongue, and on top of that he had become friends with Enzo Paci in Milan, writing for aut aut. And if there was one thing that terrorized Pareyson, it was the prospect of one of his students defecting to someone else. So all this got the master a bit twitchy. But he was certainly convinced that Eco was clever. I’m afraid he may even have thought he was smarter than me.

What did he complain about? That Eco didn’t send him greetings at Christmas. That was what earned me the chair, I believe. And yet I used to say to Pareyson, “Look, Eco isn’t like you and me, he is incapable of writing ‘best wishes.’ Either he finds an amusing way to say it or he doesn’t say it at all.” That’s still my view. I can’t imagine Eco taking a nice Christmas card with a manger or a Christmas tree and some curlicues and writing, “Dear professor, my best wishes to you.” Whereas the rest of us did so, miserable provincials that we were. When I published a book, especially before I won my chair, I would send copies to a whole mailing list of professors: “To professor so-and-so, devoted homage from Gianni Vattimo.” Devoto omaggio? I don’t believe Umberto Eco ever wrote that to anyone in his life. Presumptuous as he is. Justifiably.

Umberto is the only person I don’t envy for being more intelligent than I am. I’ve had a few polemics with him recently, but it was just needling, fodder for the newspapers, trifles. My affection, my friendship, my admiration for him are truly great.

In Italy we hardly see each other; neither of us has much time. Sometimes we meet in New York. There we both have more free time, so it’s long walks and long debates and gossip in Piedmontese dialect, because Eco is from Alessandria and it matters to him. I get a real kick out of seeing people swivel around and whisper, “Who is that with Umberto Eco?”

I’ve always considered him an old friend; but he’s also been a sort of older comrade or vice maestro to me.

He’s taught me so many things. Mainly he taught me funny stories. I have a repertory of stories that would make Berlusconi jealous. Why? Because I’ve always hung out with Eco.

It would be better if he behaved a bit less like a monument, but nobody’s perfect.

I’m convinced that when the next Italian wins the Nobel Prize in literature (once enough time has passed since Dario Fo’s win), it will be a showdown between Claudio Magris, someone else who increasingly behaves like his own monument, and Umberto Eco. I’m betting on Eco; he has more arrows in his quiver. It’ll certainly be a fine contest.

In saying that one of those two will win the Nobel Prize, I’m also saying that I’m already tickled at the thought of the loser grinding his teeth with rage.