Don Quijote by Miguel de Cervantes must surely be one of the most transcendent failures in all of human history. A failure because it was his stated intent to parody the chivalric romances of his day by ridiculing Alonso Quijano, a middle age man who falls prey to bibliomania and sets out to become a knight errant; luminous because the Don instead emerged as one of the most beloved heroes in all of literature.
The set up of the novel (which was written in two parts) is fairly simple. Don Quijote, a previously respectable country gentleman, has gone insane from continually reading books of chivalry:
This gentleman in the times when he had nothing to
do-as was the case for most of the year-gave
himself to the reading of books of knight errantry;
which he loved and enjoyed so much that he
almost entirely forgot his hunting, and even the
care of his estate. So odd and foolish, indeed, did
he grow on this subject that he sold many acres
of cornland to buy these books of chivalry to read.
... [In the end], he so buried himself in his books
that he spent the nights reading from twilight till
daybreak and the days from dawn till dark; and so
from little sleep and much reading, his brain
dried up and he lost his wits.
Unable to distinguish fiction from reality, he sets out to become a knight and to earn the love of his lady Dulcinea, accompanied by a somewhat greedy Sancho Panza who pretends to be his squire. He suffers a long series of misadventures, the most famous of which is the battle with the windmills:
At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that are on that plain.
"Fortune," said Don Quixote to his squire, as soon
as he had seen them, "is arranging matters for us
better than we could have hoped. Look there, friend
Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous
giants rise up, all of whom I mean to engage in
battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall
begin to make our fortunes. For this is righteous
warfare, and it is God's good service to sweep so
evil a breed from off the face of the earth."
"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
"Those you see there," answered his master, "with
the long arms, and some have them nearly two
leagues long."
"Look, your worship,'' said Sancho. "What we see
there are not giants but windmills, and what
seem to be their arms are the vanes that turned
by the wind make the millstone go."
"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that you
are not used to this business of adventures. Those
are giants, and if you are afraid, away with you
out of here and betake yourself to prayer, while I
engage them in fierce and unequal combat."
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante,
heedless of the cries his squire Sancho sent after
him, warning him that most certainly they were windmills
and not giants he was going to attack.
He, however, was so positive they were giants that
he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor
perceived, near as he was, what they were.
"Fly not, cowards and vile beings," he shouted, "for a single knight attacks you."
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great vanes began to move.
"Though ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus,
ye have to reckon with me!" exclaimed
Don Quixote, when he saw this.
So saying, he commended himself with all his heart
to his lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support
him in such a peril. With lance braced and covered
by his shield, he charged at Rocinante's fullest
gallop and attacked the first mill that stood in
front of him. But as he drove his lance-point into the
sail, the wind whirled it around with such force
that it shivered the lance to pieces. It swept away
with it horse and rider, and they were sent rolling
over the plain, in sad condition indeed.
Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as the
ass could go. When he came up and found Don
Quixote unable to move, with such an impact had
Rocinante fallen with him.
"God Bless me!," said Sancho, "did I not tell your
worship to watch what you were doing, because
they were only windmills? No one could have made
any mistake about it unless he had something
of the same kind in his head."
"Silence, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote. "The
fortunes of war more than any other are liable
to frequent fluctuations. Moreover I think, and
it is the truth, that the same sage Frestón who
carried off my study and books, has turned these
giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of
vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me.
But in the end his wicked arts will avail but little
against my good sword."
This is the pattern for the tale: the Don misperceives threats in the innocent and mundane events of every day life; Sancho Panza tries to disabuse him of these notions but loyally supports him after failing to do so; the Don does battle, often suffering ignominious defeat; whereupon he claims that sorcery has intervened. Throughout, Cervantes has great fun at the Don's expense. He is a figure of ridicule and scorn, not of mere amusement. But in the end, when Don Quijote is finally returning home after losing a battle with the Knight of the White Moon, Don Antonio Moreno speaks for all of us when he implores one of Quijote's friends who has come to fetch him:
Ah, sir, may God forgive you for the damage you've
done to the whole rest of the world, in trying
to cure the wittiest lunatic ever seen! Don't
you see, my dear sir, that whatever utility there might
be in curing him, it could never match the pleasure
he gives with his madness? But I suspect that,
despite all your cleverness, sir, you cannot possibly
cure a man so far gone in madness, and, if
charity did not restrain me, I would say that Don
Quijote ought never to be rendered sane, because
if he were he would lose, not only his witticisms,
but those of Sancho Panza, his squire, any one of
which has the power to turn melancholy into happiness.
And finally, when Don Quijote lies on his death bed, fully sane and renouncing his own deeds, even Sancho Panza begs him not to abandon their chivalric quests. Ultimately, though reality has been imposed upon the Don, his romantic vision has inspired those around him.
In truth, regardless of Cervantes' original intention, it is hard to
imagine that he did not realize that readers would identify with the luminous
idealism of Don Quijote. For who among us would prefer the dictates
of mundane reality to the romantic vision of the Man of La Mancha?
If it was not Cervantes' intent that Don Quijote's dreams inspire us, that
has nonetheless been the effect for nearly four hundred years now.
This novel is the wellspring of Western fiction and, though it won't hurt
anyone to read an abridged version, unquestionably one of the greatest
novels ever written. Whatever you do, be sure to read it in the great
recent Burton Raffel translation; his vibrant prose renders the text totally
accessible and it is a true joy to read.
(Reviewed:02-Apr-00)
Grade: (A+)
