The Name of the Rose

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco is probably the greatest work of historical fiction set in Medieval Europe, and if that sometimes makes it difficult, pedantic, overly symbolic and a dragging theological treatise, either learn to deal with it and even enjoy it, or else forever abandon this extremely interesting but deathly hostile period and place. As a history enthusiast, popular media always disappoint me with their grim image of the past, the Dark Ages being quite literally dark and dirty, the average peasant having shit smeared on his face. The truth is very different. Bright colors were universally loved, churches were still decorated with extremely detailed Orthodox style, not to mention that people outside great cities actually bathed because they thought diseases were transmitted through scent. It was a time of constant geopolitical changes, of actual progress in many fields, but also of great spiritual stagnation. The darkness was spreading in the hearts and minds of men and women, forever looking at the ground and interpreting everything through the lenses of Scripture, always awaiting an Apocalypse that would never come.
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