I’d been saving this one up for a long time, as Foucault’s Pendulum is one of those incredible and life-altering books one sometimes comes across entirely by accident. Hungered after devouring it, I went in search of The Name of the Rose, finding it eventually in a second-hand bookshop for £18, before discovering that my husband has, in fact, had a copy all along. But it was worth the £18 I paid for it. Although it doesn’t have quite the place in my heart that Foucault’s Pendulum will always hold, it is nonetheless an excellent book; all the more so if you read the blurb on the back inside cover and realise that this – this wonderful masterpiece of literature – is a first novel, which are normally utterly awful compared to an author’s later works.
But then, Umberto Eco is not one to fail to impress.