Umber­to Eco’s The Name of the Rose sold so well that its Eng­lish trans­la­tor William Weaver could add an exten­sion onto his Tus­can vil­la, which he called the “Eco Cham­ber.” The Bib­liote­ca Eco, or Eco Library, whose rib­bon-cut­ting ear­li­er this month you can see in the Ital­ian news clip just above, may not be as wit­ti­ly named, but it’s a much more ambi­tious project. It was opened this year, the tenth anniver­sary of the famed philoso­pher, semi­oti­cian, nov­el­ist, and crit­ic’s death, at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bologna, where he was a pro­fes­sor from 1971 to 2007. Hous­ing more than 32,000 books from his per­son­al library in Milan (pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, and the sub­ject of its own fea­ture-length doc­u­men­tary), it stands as an explorable con­crete rep­re­sen­ta­tion of his capa­cious mind.

So capa­cious was that mind, in fact, that the Eco Library actu­al­ly com­pris­es sev­er­al libraries, chiefly the Rare Book Library and the much-sub­di­vid­ed Work­ing Library. In them, one encoun­ters sec­tions “ded­i­cat­ed to lit­er­ary gen­res, comics and pop­u­lar cul­ture, works by and about Umber­to Eco” — includ­ing more than 2,000 edi­tions and trans­la­tions of his own books — “ancient and medieval phi­los­o­phy, the his­to­ry of ideas, semi­otics, trans­la­tion and the­o­ries of lan­guage,” says the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bolog­na’s mag­a­zine Uni­bo.

There are “Ital­ian, French, Eng­lish-lan­guage, Ger­man, Cen­tral Euro­pean, Slav­ic, Latin Amer­i­can and many oth­er lit­er­a­tures,” includ­ing works of “detec­tive fic­tion and sci­ence fic­tion, pop­u­lar lit­er­a­ture and the feuil­leton.” As any­one who’s read Eco’s essay on Peanuts might imag­ine, “his com­ic book col­lec­tion is also of great impor­tance.”

Indeed, as any fan would expect, Eco’s name­sake library reflects not just the vast sweep of his human­is­tic inter­ests and knowl­edge, but also his play­ful sense of eccen­tric­i­ty, and even grotes­querie. Accord­ing to the Fon­dazione Umber­to Eco, most of the vol­umes it con­tains “are marked by a dis­tinc­tive ex lib­ris,” an adap­ta­tion of a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry wood­cut that depicts a don­key on a cor­nu­copia-topped latrine. “The ani­mal plays a small pipe, set­ting in motion a mer­ry dance of a dozen cavort­ing mon­keys.” The books them­selves have been painstak­ing­ly arranged just as Eco shelved them, in accor­dance with the “good neigh­bor” prin­ci­ple of plac­ing seem­ing­ly unre­lat­ed titles in close prox­im­i­ty in order to reveal unex­pect­ed intel­lec­tu­al con­nec­tions between them. The vol­umes from Eco’s coun­try house in Monte Cerignone will also be incor­po­rat­ed into the col­lec­tion, but as the man him­self knew, the best libraries, like the best minds, are nev­er tru­ly com­plete.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Umber­to Eco Walk Through His Immense Pri­vate Library: It Goes On, and On, and On!

Umber­to Eco Explains Why We Make Lists

The Virtue of Own­ing Books You Haven’t Read: Why Umber­to Eco Kept an “Antili­brary”

Dis­cov­er the 1126 Books in John Cage’s Per­son­al Library: Fou­cault, Joyce, Wittgen­stein, Vir­ginia Woolf, Buck­min­ster Fuller & More

Darwin’s Per­son­al Library Goes Dig­i­tal: 330 Books Online

The Largest Book­shelf Tour Ever Filmed: Inside a Classicist’s 20,000-Volume Library

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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