The Name of the Rose

The Name of the Rose

When I turned twenty-five, I received what many people considered the perfect birthday gift: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco.

At the time, the novel topped bestseller lists around the world. Critics praised it as a literary masterpiece, and readers spoke of it with almost religious admiration. It was one of those books that everyone insisted you simply had to read.

I couldn't have been happier.

The novel was more than 600 pages long, and I have always loved thick books. To me, a long novel promises a world you can disappear into for days. Even better, The Name of the Rose dealt with history—or at least historical fiction—and that has always been one of my favorite genres. Everything about it suggested that I was about to discover one of the greatest novels ever written.

Then came a rainy Saturday evening.

Perfect weather for reading.

I settled into my favorite chair, opened the book, and began.

Like many novels, it started slowly. I wasn't worried. Some of the best books I've ever read take their time introducing the characters and building the atmosphere before the story truly begins. I expected the pace to pick up.

It never did.

I made it through one hundred pages before I finally admitted defeat.

I've read books that were slow.

I've read books that demanded patience.

I've even read books that were difficult because of their ideas.

But this was something entirely different.

For me, The Name of the Rose wasn't simply slow—it was exhausting.

Umberto Eco seemed determined to describe every room, every hallway, every object, every historical detail, every theological argument, and nearly every passing thought with microscopic precision. Sentences stretched on, packed with so much information that by the time I reached the period, I had almost forgotten how the sentence had started.

Instead of becoming immersed in the story, I constantly felt as though I was fighting my way through it.

Ironically, the novel's actual plot is fascinating.

Set in a wealthy Benedictine monastery in northern Italy in 1327, the story follows the young novice Adso of Melk, who accompanies the brilliant Franciscan friar William of Baskerville. They arrive at the monastery just as important church leaders prepare to debate controversial questions about poverty, power, and the authority of the Church. Before the discussions even begin, one of the monks dies under mysterious circumstances. Soon, more deaths follow, and William begins investigating what appears to be a series of murders hidden behind the monastery's walls.

That premise is outstanding.

A medieval monastery.

Political intrigue.

Religious conflict.

A brilliant detective.

A chain of mysterious murders.

On paper, it sounds like exactly the kind of novel I should love.

Yet somehow, despite having everything I normally enjoy, it never came alive for me.

The mystery often seemed buried beneath endless descriptions, philosophical discussions, historical references, and theological debates. Instead of building suspense, these passages repeatedly interrupted it. Just when I felt the investigation gaining momentum, another lengthy explanation would slow everything down again.

I understand why Eco wrote the novel this way.

He wanted readers to experience the intellectual world of the Middle Ages. He wanted the monastery to feel authentic, the debates historically accurate, and the setting richly detailed. His scholarship is undeniable, and I admire the enormous amount of research behind the book.

But admiration and enjoyment are not always the same thing.

For me, the detail became overwhelming rather than immersive.

Instead of painting a vivid picture, it blurred it.

Instead of creating atmosphere, it buried the story beneath layers of information.

Instead of feeling clever, I often felt lost.

Perhaps that's exactly why so many people consider the novel a masterpiece. Eco challenges his readers instead of entertaining them in a conventional way. Many readers enjoy that intellectual challenge, and I completely understand why literary critics continue to praise the book decades after its publication.

I simply wasn't one of those readers.

In fact, this remains the only book I have ever given away before finishing it.

I closed it after one hundred pages, accepted that it wasn't for me, and gave it to someone else who I hoped would appreciate it more than I did.

I've never done that before.

And I haven't done it since.

Ironically, I absolutely loved the film adaptation starring Sean Connery as William of Baskerville.

The movie captured everything I had hoped to find in the novel.

The mystery was gripping.

The monastery felt mysterious and dangerous.

The historical setting remained fascinating without becoming overwhelming.

Sean Connery brought warmth, intelligence, and quiet humor to William, while Christian Slater made Adso an engaging companion for the audience. The film maintained the intellectual themes but never forgot that it was also telling a murder mystery.

For me, the adaptation succeeded where the novel failed.

It transformed an incredibly promising story into one I genuinely enjoyed.

Does that mean The Name of the Rose is a bad book?

Not at all.

Its reputation exists for good reasons. It is ambitious, meticulously researched, intellectually rich, and unlike almost any other historical novel ever written.

But I do believe it is more celebrated than it deserves.

A great novel should not only impress the mind—it should also make the reader want to keep turning the pages.

For me, The Name of the Rose forgot that second part.

Perhaps I simply wasn't the right reader.

Perhaps I expected an engaging historical mystery and instead found an academic exercise wrapped inside one.

Or perhaps every masterpiece, no matter how celebrated, still has the right to leave some readers completely unmoved.

If that's true, then The Name of the Rose certainly accomplished that with me.

To this day, it remains the most disappointing book I have ever attempted to read—and the finest example I know of a story whose reputation was far greater than my own experience of it.