The mind tends to wander when the body shelters in place. Lately, mine has been returning to Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, a postmodern murder mystery set in a 14th-century Benedictine monastery. The main detective, William of BaskerÂville, tries desperately to connect wildly disparate dots in order to find some pattern, some overarching meaning, among widespread destruction and death. In the end, he fails. No coherent pattern emerges, only coincidence and confusion alongside a few simple acts of kindness.
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