I have always enjoyed reading Umberto Eco's work: he has a style that is charming and informative at the same time, often showing his erudition as a semantic analyst, and as a commentator on modern life and linguistics. In other words, he is accessible as a writer; he is clear about where he stands on various issues; he basically respects the reader, and expects the reader to respect him as well.
That being said, how one 'takes' this particular book will depend on how seriously Eco himself is about his subject. Take it all too seriously, and one might find oneself thinking what a pompous ass the author is, and one might find it all too alienating. The title if this work, however, should give us a clue that Eco is really writing 'tongue-in-cheek'. For someone who has published extensively over the years, he began he 'career' as a novelist when he was about 50 (although he tells us that he 'began' to write novels in his childhood), and is now about 77; and during that twenty-seven year period he has published 'only' five novels. It is 'obvious' that therefore he should be considered as a mere novice, as a 'young' novelist. Joke.
The first chapter deals with How to Write a Novel: and Eco tells us honestly what he feels he needs to do: but by the time one gets through this, I suspect his 'revelations' will deter just about any budding novelist to even start the journey! Chapter 2 deals essentially with authors, texts and interpreters. Here we are introduced into the general world of 'interpretation', and get an insight into the 'problems' presented by these three subjects. We are allowed to 'see' how the self-generated concerns of analysts and theorists get themselves into complex quagmires: whether the 'author' exists; whether the 'text' means anything; and whether various interpretations are all 'valid' or not… Eco reveals, for example, that there are certain aspects he, as author, intends the general public to perceive; then he tells us that there are also bits of information which only the more erudite of scholars are meant to 'pick up' (thus creating a form of elitist reader, different from the masses); finally, there are the interpreters, who provide 'insights' which even Eco himself was not aware of — and these tend to split into two types: insights which, while the author was not originally aware of them, nevertheless can be considered valid and in general agreement with the work in question; and those insights which the author does not accept as being valid at all. The problems of translators are touched on: what words, exactly, can actually convey the intentions of the original into the language of another culture? How 'true' is a translator who works more 'freely' as compared with one who is more 'literal'? These, of course, are 'serious' problems for the analysts and the professors of linguistics; but simply being made aware of them suggests there is a simple way out: who cares, really?
By the time one gets to Chapter 3, which deals about the 'reality' of fictional characters, and how we are moved and upset more by the suicide (for example) of Anna Karenina than by similar events in 'real life' that we really start entering the Twilight Zone: ontological considerations battle with semantic considerations; theoretical disputations that would fit in beautifully with the meanderings of Mediaeval Scholars; psychological aspects are thrown in; and post-modernist multi-definition multi-interpretative highly 'adjectivised' neologisms are thrown hither and thither. Eco is clever enough to write clearly about these issues (and therein lies the true value, in my opinion, of a book such as this), but in the end one cannot help feeling that one needs to remind these academics: it's only a novel!
Chapter 4 on 'lists' is the culmination of this work: the author has truly entered another world more akin to insanity (or at least dealing with a severe case of literary autism and/or obsessive compulsive disorder). This Chapter is a masterpiece of writing dealing with this disorder. If you thought you knew what a list is, this chapter will explain how little you know! We are given many examples of eccentric lists found in many modern novelists, including Eco himself, which seem to go on forever and ever, the author either unable or unwilling to relent, subjecting the poor reader with boredom, irritation, and general ennui, as the author shows off his 'erudition' and his obsession to a nauseating degree and beyond, and with little insight or illumination.
The book ends: "Lists: a pleasure to read and to write. These are the confessions of a young writer." For me, that is the biggest joke of all. Long, elaborate, unnecessary lists are NOT a pleasure to read; nor, I suspect, a pleasure to write. While confessing to be an aficionado of such lists is at least an honest comment on his own works, ironically I agree that such a confession is indeed that of a young writer — and by 'young' I mean 'immature'. So from that perspective at least, Eco is indeed a 'young' novelist. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink! Joke! How ironic!
What's wonderful about this small book, therefore, is the fact that the reader is allowed to come to a certain knowledge and understanding of just how insane modern critiques can become if one allows their 'seriousness' to dominate. Treat it lightly, however, and it allows one to become amused at the pretence; and perhaps one can even learn to forgive them.