Don Quixote

by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

there is even a little-known author, but a very creditable one, who says that in a certain castle the Knight of Phoebus was caught in a certain trapdoor that opened beneath his feet, and he fell and found himself in a deep pit under the earth, tied hand and foot, and there he was given one of those things called an enema, composed of melted snow and sand, which almost killed him, and if he had not been helped in those dire straits by a wise man who was a great friend of his, things would have gone very badly for the poor knight.

This wondrous silence, and the thoughts of our knight, which always were turned to the events constantly recounted in the books responsible for his misfortune, brought to his mind as strange a bit of madness as anyone could imagine, and it was that he thought he had come to a famous castle—for, as has been said, it seemed to him that all the inns where he stayed were castles—and that the innkeeper’s daughter was the daughter of the lord of the castle, and that she, conquered by his gentle bearing, had fallen in love with him and had promised to steal away from her parents that night and come and lie with him for a time; and since he considered this entire fantasy, which he had invented, as solid and true, he became distressed as he began to think of the dangerous predicament in which his virtue would find itself, and he resolved in his heart not to betray his lady Dulcinea of Toboso even if Queen Guinevere herself, along with her duenna Quintañona, were to appear before him.

I wonder if this idea of interpreting our own situations and relationships through the lens of fanciful stories is not extremely salient in the age of social media, reality TV, and other sorts of concocted drama. I've heard people speaking of their lives and relationships in overly dramatic terms that they surely picked up from some TV show or influencer and I wonder... are they not suffering from the same bit of madness as Don Quixote? Or the poor fool who imagines an attraction/love where there is clearly none....?

either I understand little, or this castle is enchanted.

The officer came up to him and said: “Well, how goes it, my good man?” “I would speak with more courtesy,” responded Don Quixote, “if I were you. Is it the custom in this land to speak in that manner to knights errant, you dolt?”

“I believe, Sancho, that this affliction has befallen you because you have not been dubbed a knight, for I am of the opinion that this potion is not suitable for those who are not knights.” “Curse me and all my kin! If your grace knew that,” replied Sancho, “why did you let me taste it?” At this point the concoction took effect, and the poor squire began to erupt from both channels, and with so much force that the reed mat on which he lay, and the canvas blanket that covered him, could not be used again.

“In that case,” said Don Quixote, “Our Lord has relieved me of the task which I was going to undertake to avenge his death, if anyone else had killed him; but since he was killed by the One who killed him, there is no other recourse but to be silent and shrug one’s shoulders, which is what I should do if He had killed me.

“I might have talked until morning!” said Don Quixote. “How long would you have waited to tell me of your plight?”

“That is the nature of women,” said Don Quixote. “They reject the man who loves them and love the man who despises them.

“If, Señores, you wish me to tell you briefly about the immensity of my misfortunes, you must promise not to interrupt the thread of my sad history with any question, or with anything else, because the moment you interrupt will be the moment my narration ends.”

This is such an interesting preoccupation of the author. We do have a habit of interrupting each other, and it turns out that way in this case that Don Quixote can't help but go on and on about his collection of books, just because the narrator spoke of a book. Is there a lesson here? Is it better to hear people out, even if they tell stories terribly or in an unfocused way? Not to cut in, even if we have something pertinent and interesting to share?

We matured, as did our love, until it seemed to Luscinda’s father that, in deference to public opinion, he was obliged to deny me entrance to his house, almost imitating in this regard the parents of that same Thisbe praised so often by poets.

although it silenced our tongues, it could not silence our pens, which, with greater freedom than tongues, tend to reveal to the person we love what is hidden in our soul, for often the presence of the beloved confuses and silences the most determined intention and the boldest tongue.

nor was Don Quixote prepared to hear it, so vexed was he by what he had heard about Madásima. How extraordinary, for it enraged him as if she really were his true and natural queen: that is what his perverse books had done to him!

“I have already told you many times before now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that you talk far too much, and although your wits are dull, your tongue often is sharp; however, so that you may see how foolish you are and how discerning I am, I wish to tell you a brief story. Once there was a widow who was beautiful, free, rich, and above all, easy in her ways, and she fell in love with a lay brother, a sturdy, good-looking boy; his superior learned of this, and one day he said to the good widow, in fraternal reprimand: ‘I am amazed, Señora, and with reason, that a woman as distinguished, as beautiful, and as rich as your grace has fallen in love with a man as crude, as base, and as stupid as he, when there are in this house so many masters, so many scholars, so many theologians, among whom your grace could make a selection as if you were choosing pears, saying, I want this one but not the other.’ But she responded with a good deal of wit and verve: ‘Your grace, Señor, is very much mistaken, and you are thinking in an old-fashioned way if you think I have chosen badly, no matter how stupid he may seem to you; because considering the reason I love and want him, he knows as much philosophy as Aristotle, and even more.’ In the same way, Sancho, because of my love for Dulcinea of Toboso, she is worth as much as the highest princess on earth. And yes, not every poet who praises a lady, calling her by another name, really has one. Do you think the Amaryllises, Phyllises, Sylvias, Di...

It's right here that I realized Don Quixote may not be mad after all. At least, not entirely. I think he understands the deep truth that all societal realities are "enacted", and are only as real as our acting out of them. (Spoiler) I also believe that his deathbed renunciation was only for the sake of making sure his wishes would be obeyed for the benefit of his family and friends.

Remember that I’m old enough to give advice, and the advice I’m giving you now is exactly right, and a bird in the hand is better than a vulture in the air, and if you have something good and choose something evil, you can’t complain about the good that happens to you.”

“That’s the way,” said Sancho, “I’ve heard it said in sermons, we should love Our Lord: for Himself alone, not because we hope for glory or are afraid of punishment. But I’d rather love and serve Him for what He can do.”

love has no better minister for carrying out his desires than opportunity:

You cannot belong to the beautiful Luscinda because you are mine, and she cannot be yours because she belongs to Cardenio; if you consider it for a moment, it would be easier for you to turn your will to loving one who adores you, rather than trying to force love from one who despises you.

Happy were those blessed times that lacked the horrifying fury of the diabolical instruments of artillery, whose inventor, in my opinion, is in hell, receiving the reward for his accursed invention, which allows an ignoble and cowardly hand to take the life of a valiant knight, so that not knowing how it comes, or from where, a stray shot is fired into the courage and spirit that inflame and animate a brave heart, sent by one who perhaps fled in fear at the bright flare when the damned machine discharged it, and it cuts off and ends in an instant the thoughts and life of one who deserved to enjoy many more long years.

For her sake I left my father’s house, and for her sake I put on these clothes, in order to follow her wherever she might go, as the arrow follows its mark or the sailor his star.

don’t go marrying her in those courts and great palaces where they don’t understand her and she won’t understand herself.”

“It’s nothing, Señor Sansón, except that my master’s pushing out, he’s pushing out, no doubt about it!” “And where is he pushing out, Señora?” asked Sansón. “Has he broken any part of his body?” “He isn’t pushing out anywhere,” she responded, “except through the door of his madness. I mean, dear Señor Bachelor, that he wants to leave again,

“Sancho, what do you think of how the enchanters despise me? Look at the extent of their malice and ill will, for they have chosen to deprive me of the happiness I might have had at seeing my lady in her rightful person. In truth, I was born to be a model of misfortune, the target and mark for the arrows of affliction. And you must also know, Sancho, that it was not enough for these traitors to have changed and transformed my Dulcinea, but they had to transform and change her into a figure as low-born and ugly as that peasant, and take away something that so rightfully belongs to noble ladies, which is a sweet smell, since they are always surrounded by perfumes and flowers. For I shall tell you, Sancho, that when I came to help Dulcinea onto her palfrey, as you call it, though it looked like a donkey to me, I smelled an odor of raw garlic that almost made me faint and poisoned my soul.”

I want you, Sancho, to think well and to have a good opinion of plays, and to be equally well-disposed toward those who perform them and those who write them, because they are all the instruments whereby a great service is performed for the nation, holding up a mirror to every step we take and allowing us to see a vivid image of the actions of human life; there is no comparison that indicates what we are and what we should be more clearly than plays and players.

“Well, the same thing happens in the drama and business of this world, where some play emperors, others pontiffs, in short, all the figures that can be presented in a play, but at the end, which is when life is over, death removes all the clothing that differentiated them, and all are equal in the grave.”

“Not mine,” responded Sancho. “I mean, there’s nothing of the scoundrel in him; mine’s as innocent as a baby; he doesn’t know how to harm anybody, he can only do good to everybody, and there’s no malice in him: a child could convince him it’s night in the middle of the day, and because he’s simple I love him with all my heart and couldn’t leave him no matter how many crazy things he does.”

“I confess,” said the fallen knight, “that the torn and dirty shoe of Señora Dulcinea of Toboso is worth more than the unkempt but clean beard of Casildea, and I promise to go and return from her presence to yours, and to give you a complete and detailed account of whatever you ask.”

“They cannot and should not be called deceptions,” said Don Quixote, “since their purpose was virtuous.”

“That is true,” responded Sancho, “but if you pay your debts, you don’t worry about guaranties, and in a prosperous house supper’s soon on the stove; I mean that nobody has to tell me things or give me any advice: I’m prepared for anything, and I know something about everything.”

And all, or most of them, sprinkled flagons of perfumed water on Don Quixote and on the duke and duchess, all of which astounded Don Quixote, and this was the first day he really knew and believed he was a true knight errant and not a fantastic one, for he saw himself treated in the same manner in which, he had read, knights were treated in past ages.

“There can be no doubt,” said Sancho, “that this demon is a decent man and a good Christian, because otherwise he wouldn’t swear by God and my conscience. Now I think there must be good people even down in hell.”

O famous knight, never sufficiently praised, to you, both valiant and wise, O Don Quixote, the splendor of La Mancha and star of Spain, that for the peerless lady Dulcinea to regain and recover her first state, your squire, Sancho, needs to give himself three thousand and three hundred blows upon both of his broad buttocks, robust and large, bared to the whip, and struck in such a way that they turn red, and smart, and give him pain. This is the decision of all the authors of her misfortune, woe, and alteration, and for this I have come, my lords and ladies.”

“Eructate, Sancho, means to belch, which is one of the crudest words in the Castilian language, although it is very expressive, and so educated people have had recourse to Latin, and instead of belch they say eructate, and instead of belches, eructations; and if some do not understand these terms, it matters very little, for in time their use will be introduced into the language and they will easily be understood; this enriches the language, over which the common people and usage have control.”

“By God,” came the response, “and by the birth of whoever your grace loves, I swear, Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha, that I’m your squire, Sancho Panza, and I’ve never died in all the days of my life,

“It was eight or ten days ago, Brother Gossip, that I came to govern the ínsula that they gave me, and in all that time I didn’t even have enough bread to eat; I’ve been persecuted by doctors and had my bones trampled by enemies, and I haven’t had time to take any bribes or collect any fees, and this being true, which it is, in my opinion I didn’t deserve to leave in this way; but man proposes and God disposes, and God knows what suits each man and what’s best for him, and time changes the rhyme, and nobody should say, ‘That’s water I won’t drink,’ because you’re in a place where you think there’s bacon, and you don’t even find a nail; God understands me, and that’s enough, and I’ll say no more, though I could.”

I’m not sad, because I’ve heard that the woman they call Fortune is drunken, and fickle, and most of all blind, so she doesn’t see what she’s doing and doesn’t know who she’s throwing down or raising up.”

But wait! She’s a good-looking girl, and there are shepherds more wicked than simple, and I wouldn’t want her to go for wool and come back shorn;

because the truth is, as has already been said, that whether Don Quixote was simply Alonso Quixano the Good, or whether he was Don Quixote of La Mancha, he always had a gentle disposition and was kind in his treatment of others, and for this reason he was dearly loved not only by those in his household, but by everyone who knew him.