The story: A colorless Italian provincial who somehow gets stranded aboard an abandoned ship in 1643. There appears to be no point to the plot -- an impression reinforced by the mawkish narrator, who keeps popping up uninvited to assure that he himself has no idea where the hell this thing is going.

There's even an attempt at a fencing scene. But what a contrived thing it is. A mercenary-cum-philosopher is trying to teach a predictably bumbling and irascible priest a moral lesson with his rapier, while non-stop soliloquizing on sophomoric philosophical problems. This goes on for four pages -- FOUR PAGES! -- to accommodate a parry-riposte.

The whole book is written in an obnoxiously Baroque style -- obviously intended to underscore Eco's genius but only succeeding in conjuring up the image of a middle-aged professor in a tutu dancing Swan Lake with tin cans tied to his feet. I didn't bother finishing the book.