The Infinity of Lists

Every writer reads, in the course of her lifetime, a handful of books she really, really wishes she had written. The Infinity of Lists is the book I wish I had written, while at the same time being a book I could never hope to write. No one other than Umberto Eco could have written this book.

Written is arguably not an accurate word choice. Compiled better describes what Eco does in this catalog of catalogues. Compiled isn’t exactly it either though. I may have to create my own word to capture this book. Catachived might be it, as Eco has created an archive of lists arranged in a sort of categorical system. Archivetory? Catachive? Archivalog? Indexetory? Chronilogue? I do not know Umberto Eco. Yet somehow, I feel Eco would have liked that a new word was needed to describe what he did.

Interspersed between the catachives are Eco’s own words, released from the constraints of a list, soaring free in the form of digressions of the most interesting sort. These digressions wear many hats, posing as paeans to the classics of the Greek world and other lists of western culture, collecting oddities and artefacts into loose archivalogs that allow for captivating contrasts and juxtapositions. The Infinity of Lists is a collection of collections, a list of lists, beautifully illustrated and covering the world of Western mysticism, landscape, and exotica found in Eco's novels.

I do not have anything interesting or enlightening to convey about this book, no searing meta-analysis or cultural critique to offer. All I can say is that I loved every single word that I could never hope to write of it.