Posts Tagged ‘Don Quixote’

The Knight of the Lions: the second part of “Don Quixote”

The excerpts quoted from Don Quixote in this post are taken from the translation by John Rutherford, published by Penguin Classics.

In the first part of Don Quixote, Don Quixote had dubbed himself The Knight of the Sorry Face. This was how literal-minded Sancho had described him after one of their many misadventures, but Don Quixote, with his mind ever ready to transform literal plainness into something strange and wonderful and resonant with meaning, happily takes on that sobriquet for himself, and forces it to signify far more than Sancho could ever have imagined. But in this second part, Don Quixote chooses for himself a different name: The Knight of the Lions.

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“Don Quixote and Sancho Panza” by Honore Daumier, courtesy of National Gallery, London

 

This new name Don Quixote adopts in the second part, written some ten years after the first, signifies a somewhat different concept of the character. Earlier, Don Quixote had developed from being merely a joke figure into something more significant: he had developed into a figure who had, of his own free will, rejected the tyranny of reality, preferring to live by his fantasy instead, in his own mind and in the real world. And Don Quixote actually knows he is insane:

That is the whole point … and therein lies the beauty of my enterprise. A knight errant going mad for a good reason – there is neither pleasure nor merit in that. The thing is to become insane without a cause …

He has chosen to be insane, but not for any cause: it is not because reality is too painful, or too dull, to face. In my post on the First Part of Don Quixote, I had suggested that Don Quixote had chosen fantasy over reality for such reasons, but I think I was wrong: there is nothing whatever in the text to suggest this. As Don Quixote says himself, there is no cause – no reason, merely his own will. In the First Part, this rebellion against the brute facts of reality did not, and could not, result in triumph: Don Quixote knew, or, at least, must have known, that these brute facts of reality are not negotiable, that windmills really are just windmills, that flocks of sheep really are just flocks of sheep, and that defeat in the face of these brute facts is, ultimately, unavoidable. It is this underlying awareness of ultimate defeat that made for the Sorry Face. But in the second part, he is more ebullient: defeat is not here, to his mind, inevitable. Indeed, at several points in this second part, we see the power of his imagination conquer reality – we see Don Quixote triumphant. Here, he is no longer the Knight of the Sorry Face: he is the resplendent Knight of the Lions.

It is all too easy to say that Cervantes in this novel questions the nature of reality, but the nature of reality is such that it does not admit questions: two plus two is always four, and no flight of the imagination can make it otherwise. “Questioning reality” is one of those things postmodernist writers seem always to do – to what end, I’m not entirely sure – but what Cervantes does in this novel is to explore the nature of our human reaction to this brute force of reality, this ultimate tyranny of reason that will brook no dissent. And in order to do this, he sets up a dizzying series of levels – not of reality, since there is and can only be but one level of reality, in which windmills are but windmills and sheep but sheep; but of fantasy, of fiction. He had set most of these levels of fiction up in the First Part, but, for whatever reason, had made very little of them there: but in the Second Part, there’s no escaping them.

We had been told in the First Part that the author – who may be Cervantes, or who may be an invention of Cervantes’, thus introducing a new level of fiction – had found a manuscript in Arabic, telling the story of Don Quixote. And since the author – Cervantes, or an invention of his – knows no Arabic, he has had to employ a translator, and what we are reading is his translation: this sets the narrative of Don Quixote at yet one further remove. Cervantes doesn’t make any more of that in the First Part, but here, in the Second Part, we are constantly reminded that the narrative we are reading is not the author’s invention, but, rather, a translation by an unnamed translator of an Arabic manuscript written by a Moorish author called Cide Hamete Benengeli. Who this Cide Hamete Benengeli is, and how he came to know in such close detail – even down to what was going on in the characters’ minds – we are never told. It may even be that the whole thing is an invention of Cide Hamete Benengeli’s. (Should he exist, of course.)

In any case, what we are reading is not a pure translation from the Arabic: there are many passages that couldn’t possibly have been written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, such as the several points where incredulity is expressed – either by the translator, or by the author, or by Cervantes himself should the author be fictional – at some of the events narrated.

On top of all this, the characters in the Second Part have read, or, at least, know of the contents of the First Part. So, presumably, the action we read of in the Second Part must have taken place at some time after the publication of the First Part. And that First Part, as we know, is a translation of a manuscript written by Cide Hamete Benegeli, and it is this translation that has made famous the exploits of Don Quixote. However, this Second Part also appears to be a translation from Cide Hamete’s Arabic, and where the author of this Second Part (or Cervantes) has got hold of Cide Hamete’s manuscript of the Second Part isn’t made clear. And it certainly makes no sense that a Second Part should be promised in the First Part when the events narrated in the Second Part have not yet taken place.

As if all this weren’t enough, there had appeared, between Cervantes’ publication the First Part and his writing the Second, a volume published under a pseudonym (the real author has never been identified) claiming to be the Second Part of Don Quixote. This volume is often referred to by Cervantes in his own Second Part, and denounced as inauthentic, although what the criteria of authenticity are in this context seem impossible to identify (other than the obvious fact at the most basic level that Cervantes was not the author of this volume). Cervantes very quickly makes of this volume yet another level of fiction, and soon, these different levels of fiction interact with each other to quite vertiginous effect. At one point, Don Quixote changes his plans – refusing to go to Saragossa as he had intended, simply because the other Don Quixote had done so – simply in order to demonstrate that he is not the Don Quixote of the spurious publication, but is, on the contrary, the real Don Quixote – although what he, or we for that matter, understand by “real” in this context is buried under all sorts of competing levels of fiction.

In another chapter, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza actually meet a character from the spurious volume, and Don Quixote presents himself to this character, who, though a fictional character in a world declared to be fiction, is somehow real enough in a world declared not to be fiction. Don Quixote compels this character, fictional but real, to admit that it is he, Don Quixote, who is the “real” Don Quixote, and not the other Don Quixote whom he had known in some unreal fictional world. The mind swims, and all sorts of impossibilities seem suddenly to open at one’s very feet. If this man whom Don Quixote addresses is real, does it not also follow that the “other Don Quixote” whom he had previously encountered must also have been similarly real? What, if anything, could possibly distinguish the two? What is “real” here, and what is “fiction”? But maybe this incident did not take place. Maybe it is but an invention of Cide Hamete Benengeli’s. Or maybe of the translator’s Or of the author’s. Or of Cervantes himself. Who knows. It’s all fiction anyway.

But for all this playfulness, for all the sheer sense of fun, it is not reality that is questioned for the simple reason that reality is beyond questioning: it is always there, like the repeated ground bass of a passacaglia, constantly underpinning the glorious melodic and harmonic inventions. But it is the very fact that reality is impervious to questioning that compels us to challenge it: if all tyranny is to be challenged, then the tyranny of reason, that ultimate unnegotiable tyranny that underpins reality and gives us no choice but to concede that twice two equals four, and cannot possibly equal anything other than four, must be challenged also, even in the knowledge that the challenge is pointless and futile.

Turgenev’s Bazarov, a sort of anti-Don Quixote, revels in this absolute tyranny of Reason, and disdains any challenge to it: “What’s important is that twice two is four”, he says, “and all the rest’s nonsense.” And it’s nonsense not merely because, in the face of such absolute tyranny, any challenge is bound to be defeated, but because, to Bazarov (at least, at the start of the novel), this absolute tyranny is a fine and desirable thing. But to Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man, it is something which, even if it cannot be defeated, can, and should, be resented: he knows that twice two does indeed equal four, but insists that “twice two equals five” is also a fine thing.

Don Quixote, like the Underground Man, is loath to accept that twice two is four, that windmills are but windmills and not giants; but he has a Spanish temperament, not a Russian, and, rather than sit in an underground cellar embittering his soul with resentment, he creates, in his own mind, of his own volition, and without a cause – without reason – an alternative, competing world – a world of the imagination. Even if he knows that his challenge is bound to fail, it is still, for him, worthwhile to make this challenge; even though he knows that reality will win in the end, because reality is implacable and non-negotiable and cannot be overcome, nonetheless, till that end comes, it is, for him, worthwhile to say “bollocks!” to that implacable reality. He rebels against reality not because reality is too painful to face, as it is, say, to Hjalmar Ekdal in Ibsen’s The Wild Duck; nor because it is too dull and mundane: nowhere in either of the two parts is there any indication that it is the dull and mundane nature of reality causes Don Quixote to become a knight errant. He rebels against reality simply because it is reality; he challenges it simply because it is impervious to challenge.

The question remains to what extent he believes in his own fantasy. His comment to Sancho in the First Part, where he praises becoming mad “without a cause”, suggests that he knows he is mad. But if he is indeed aware of his own madness, that would, by a Catch-22 kind of logic, make him madder still: a man tilting at windmills because he thinks they are giants may certainly be considered mad, but what can we say of someone who tilts at them actually knowing that they are merely windmills?

In every other aspect, Don Quixote is not merely sane, he is also knowledgeable, intelligent, and eloquent. The man dressed in green, whom Don Quixote encounters in Chapter 16 of the Second Part, is impressed, and is, indeed, taken by surprise by the intelligence and the eloquence and the sanity of Don Quixote’s conversation. But, just at the very point where he finds himself impressed by the fineness of Don Quixote’s mind, they encounter lions being transported in a cage, and Don Quixote, who had been till that point speaking with the most perfect acuity, demands that the cage be opened so he could face these lions. It’s almost as if his sanity and his insanity both occupy in his mind the same place: his insanity, far from being an aberration, seems almost an aspect of his sanity.

Sancho’s character has also deepened in the Second Part. Previously, he had been little more than greedy and venal, following his master even though he is aware that his master is crazy, simply with the rather simple-minded hope that, despite his master’s craziness, he will eventually be made, as promised, governor of an island. But here in the Second Part, we have a character considerably more complex. In the first place, he follows his master primarily because he loves him. There can be few protestations of love in all literature more sincere or more touching than Sancho’s:

“…… he’s as innocent as the babe unborn, he couldn’t hurt a fly, he only wants to do good to everyone, and there isn’t an ounce of malice in him – a child could make him believe it’s midnight at noon, and it’s because he’s so simple that I love him from the bottom of my heart, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave him, however many silly things he does.”

This is a Sancho astute enough to know not merely to know that his master is mad, but also to know how to handle his master’s madness. When charged with finding Dulcinea, rather than tell his master to his face that he is mad, he finds a lusty peasant girl, and claims she really is Dulcinea … but Dulcinea enchanted. And this introduces yet another level of fantasy: Dulcinea is an imagined figure even in the context of various levels of fantasies, but here she is made “real”, made flesh, through yet another fantasy. And the fantasy this time is Sancho’s, not his master’s.

While this particular fantasy helps Sancho get out of a tight corner, not all his fantasies are merely for the sake of expediency. After the magical ride through the air on the flying horse Clavileño (they stay on the ground, of course: Cervantes knows better than to banish reality from the proceedings), Sancho makes up all sorts of fantastic stories about what he had seen on his magical flight. And he fervently declares them to be true. It’s almost as if he has joined Don Quixote in his battle against reality. The Don immediately understands:

…and Don Quixote went up to him, and whispered into his ear:

“Sancho, since you want people to believe what you saw in the sky, I want you to believe what I saw in the Cave of Montesinos. I say no more.”

It is a pact. I will accept your fantasies, says the Don, if you will accept mine. Only a man who knows his fantasies to be but fantasies could even propose such a pact. One may not be able to defeat reality, but to give in to it without a challenge, without defiance, is, to Don Quixote, shameful, and, such is the attractive force Don Quixote exerts, that even the practical, down-to-earth Sancho is drawn into his master’s orbit.

And Sancho Is not the only one who is drawn into his master’s orbit. Much of the Second Part is taken up with Don Quixote’s and Sancho Panza’s residence with a Duke and Duchess, who have read the First Part, and who are so amused by knight and squire that they play along with them, gratifying their own fantasies, purely for the sake of amusement. So far do they take matters, and with such meticulous planning, that one begins to wonder who is the more insane – Don Quixote, or the Duke and the Duchess. For they too, after all, are living out a fantasy: they too are challenging reality after their fashion, although the essential cruelty and heartlessness of their amusement contrasts most sharply with the nobility of Don Quixote’s mission to right the wrongs of the world.

Then there’s Doña Roderiguez, a duenna at their court, who actually comes to Don Quixote not in jest, but as a genuine damsel in distress. What exactly she had been expecting from Don Quixote, heaven knows, but she too finds herself sharing something of Don Quixote’s madness.

And, in some of the most amusing chapters of the novel, Sancho does indeed become governor. And he is actually a very good governor – possibly far better than any the Duke and Duchess may have appointed for real. But Sancho at this stage is a very different character from the merely covetous blockhead he had been in the First Part: it doesn’t take him long to realise that, riches or not, this is not for him, and that what he valued more was the simple companionship of his beloved master.

Indeed, so successful is Don Quixote in infecting others with his fantasies, that at times he really does seem triumphant – the Knight of the Lions. But defeat is inevitable. Perhaps Don Quixote had always known it. And the way Cervantes presents this defeat is curious: he places it in the background, while filling the foreground of the canvas with all sorts of seemingly trite and irrelevant matter.

Near the start of the Second Part, there had been a passage where the literary merits of the First Part had been discussed, and all the flaws and shortcomings openly listed: there can, indeed, be no criticism of that First Part that Cervantes does not make himself at the start of the Second. Among the shortcomings discussed are Cervantes’ frequent interruptions of the narrative with frankly rather dull and irrelevant love stories – of maidens unsurpassed in beauty bravely seeking out their loves from whom circumstances have separated them, and so on, and so forth. Having ridiculed such stories at the start of the Second Part, Cervantes, unsurprisingly, keeps them out of the narrative. However, towards the end, he brings back just such a story of the kind he had ridiculed. And he spends considerable time with this, despite knowing that such stories are absurd and tedious; and despite knowing further that the reader knows they are absurd and tedious. And while he keeps this absurd and tedious story in the foreground, he allows Don Quixote to be defeated. It is almost as if the defeat of Don Quixote – which, in Richard Strauss’ tone poem, is nothing short of cataclysmic – were merely a passing detail, and no more. Like the Fall of Icarus somewhere in the background, it is something that happens somewhere in the distance while everyone else is getting on with their day-to-day lives. As Auden observed, about suffering they were never wrong, the Old Masters.

And the defeat is handed out, ironically, by a fantasy: it is Don Quixote’s fellow villager Sampson Carrasco, who delivers the final blow, while pretending to be a knight. So immersed is Don Quixote in his own fantasy that it takes time for the implications of his defeat to sink in: only after he has reached his own village does he have the time to pause and think what it means. It is not so much that he can no longer believe in his being a knight errant: there was always at least a part of him – I think a very large part – that never believed that anyway. It is more that he is no longer capable of pretending that his fantasies are real. And with this loss of his ability to pretend comes the loss of his will even to live: without his knight errantry, Don Quixote must now face the ultimate reality of all from which none of us can escape – death. A brute fact, a tyrannical fact, but a fact nonetheless, and one that cannot be circumvented, any more than can the fact of twice two equalling four.

And so we have possibly the most moving death scene in all literature.

“Oh no, don’t die, master!” Sancho replied crying. “take my advice and live for a long, long time, for the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die, just like that, without anybody killing him or any other hands except the hands of depression doing away with him.”

And with these simple but deeply felt words, Sancho turns the whole world upside-down: now, it is accepting reality that is “the maddest thing a man can do”.

But it is over. Reality is not challenged, cannot be challenged, because it is impervious to challenge. Don Quixote’s defiance of that reality – for no reason, no cause – was, simultaneously, glorious, ennobling, futile, and absurd. Twice two is four, always has been, and always will be: that has never been in any doubt. But perhaps it is no surprise that this novel, in which the brute fact of twice two being four is, if not challenged, at least defied, was the favourite novel of Dostoyevsky’s, creator of the Underground Man; and that he went on describe it as “the saddest of all books”

 

Previous posts on Don Quixote:.

Starting again on “Don Quixote”

The Knight of the Sorry Face: the first part of “Don Quixote”

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The Knight of the Sorry Face: The first part of “Don Quixote”

The excerpts quoted from Don Quixote in this post are taken from the translation by John Rutherford, published by Penguin Classics.

After one of Don Quixote’s many misadventures, Sancho Panza refers to his master’s “triste figura”. And indeed, his master has been knocked about a fair bit: “triste figura” is a reasonable way to describe his face. Don Quixote however seizes on this: the term “triste figura” clearly means more to him that it does to Sancho, and he determines henceforth to be known as “El Caballero de la Triste Figura”. What was no more than a literal description on Sancho’s part acquires far greater resonance for no better reason than that Don Quixote demands it should.

And in a way, this is emblematic of the entire novel. The idea of a man living in unremarkable contemporary times, but imagining himself a knight errant, and mistaking the ordinariness around him for the extraordinariness of magical tales, seems no more than the material for a short comic sketch; but Cervantes makes of this seemingly slim material two substantial novels, published ten years apart, and, together, taking up nearly a thousand closely-printed pages in my Penguin Classics edition. These two novels, taken together (as they usually are), have come to be seen as one of the major cornerstones of Western literature; it has become a myth far more potent than the myths it had initially set out to debunk, and which are now largely forgotten; it resonates in our minds because, just as Cervantes’ creation had demanded that the simple literal description “triste figura” be seen as signifying far more than merely its literal meaning, so Cervantes himself insists that this material for a brief comic sketch be seen as something far, far more significant than what it may at first sight seem.

Previous generations of translators had rendered “triste figura” as “doleful visage” or “sorrowful countenance”, or some other sonorous expressions that could never have occurred to the illiterate peasant Sancho. John Rutherford translates it more credibly as “sorry face”. (Edith Grossman prefers “sad face”, but they were both thinking along similar lines.) The whole point is the transformation – the transformation of something simple to something big: if the English rendition of “triste figura” is big-sounding in the first place, there is no transformation to be achieved. However, a transformation does happen, and here, there really is a sort of magic involved. As the simple expression “triste figura” becomes transformed, at Don Quixote’s insistence, into something far more resonant and far more profound, so the novel itself transforms from a mere idea of a comic sketch into something far bigger, and far more magnificent. But what it transforms into remains, I think, elusive.

We can get the obvious things out of the way: yes, everyday life is dull, mean, and often sordid, and there seems little or nothing in it to warrant descriptions such as “glorious” or as “beautiful”; that Don Quixote’s madness, while obviously denying reality, is replacing it with a vision of life which, though unreal, is nonetheless noble and beautiful; and that the beauty of Don Quixote’s vision is often cruelly deflated by the reality, and that’s comic; but, at the same time, it often transcends reality by being more noble and more beautiful, and that’s sublime; and that the greatness of Cervantes’ achievement is not seeing it as one or the other, but as both – as crude and comic, and, at the same time, as resplendent and sublime. So far, so obvious. But what I find fascinating is the question of why this particular fusion of opposites should resonate over the centuries so powerfully in our collective consciousness.

I am not sure whether I can answer this question – or whether indeed there can be any answer to it at all – but I think it is worth posing. Don Quixote (we only know him by his assumed name: his real name is Quixana or Quesada – even the author claims not to be sure) does not merely question reality – he denies it altogether. And at times, one gets the impression that this madness – for madness is surely is – is willed: the denial of reality is not a state he has been forced into by the deficient workings of his mind, but, rather, is something that is freely chosen. And it is too easy, and, hence, simplistic, to think that he has become mad as a refuge from the mundane and soul-destroying banality of everyday life, but there is nothing I’ve encountered in the text to lead one to such a conclusion: if Don Quixote has indeed chosen madness, it is for no better reason that that he had wanted to. In chapter 25 of the first part, he resolves to do penance, to go mad in the wilderness in imitation of the great knights of the mythical past; and when Sancho points out to him that those knights he mentions had become mad for a reason, Don Quixote responds magnificently:

That is the whole point … and therein lies the beauty of my enterprise. A knight errant going mad for a good reason – there is neither pleasure nor merit in that. The thing is to become insane without a cause …

I doubt Cervantes knew himself why this story of a man choosing to become insane without a cause should resonate so powerfully: possibly, when he started, he had no thought of it being anything other than a mere comic sketch. But if that were indeed the case, he must have realised quite early on that he had struck gold, for he does not end his story after the first few chapters, as he could so easily have done. Instead, he decides to continue the story – and not merely with Quixote at the centre: this Don Quixote needed a companion – a servant who complements his master’s madness. The obvious thing to do is to present Don Quixote as completely mad, and given over to fantasy, and his servant as the realist, but that is too crude and too schematic for Cervantes’ purposes: for Don Quixote is frequently intelligent and perceptive, and Sancho, although he can see windmills for what they are rather than as giants, and can see sheep but as sheep rather than as armies, is nonetheless caught up to such an extent in his master’s madness that he half believes it. And when his master promises him governorship of an island, Sancho’s cupidity leads him frequently to suspend his scepticism. At one point, when he thinks the island he will govern will be populated by black people, Sancho goes so far as to speculate on how much he will make if he were to sell them all into slavery. I cannot remember from my earlier readings how Sancho is developed in the second part, but in the first part, at least, Sancho contrasts with Don Quixote not so much in terms of his being a realist to Don Quixote’s fantasist, but, rather, in his being greedy, credulous, and cowardly, while, in comparison, his master remains idealist, noble, and courageous. Indeed, Sancho here is redeemed only by his loyalty to, and genuine affection for, his master.

I do get the impression, though, that Cervantes wasn’t as sure with this material here as he was in the second part, published ten years after. Oh – there are wonderful things here, certainly: the famous fight with the windmills, the attack on the sheep, the deliberate madness (for no cause) and the penance (for no sin) in the Sierra Morena, and so on. But there are also interpolated stories that are frankly tedious. The Captive’s Tale at least has the merit of being an exciting adventure story of imprisonment and escape – and is also surprisingly sympathetic in its depiction of the mental torment of a Moor whose daughter forsakes her father’s religion; but good adventure stories are frankly two a penny: why Cervantes should wish to hold back the far more interesting tale of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in order to give us a mere adventure story is anyone’s guess. And as for the other tales – the dull and psychologically dubious tale dubbed (in Rutherford’s translation) “The Tale of Inappropriate Curiosity”; and the even duller and even more psychologically dubious tale of Cardenio, Dorothea et al that is embedded into the main storyline itself – the less said about them the better. These are things we patiently read through because we know there are wonders yet to come; or, better still perhaps, these are chapters we skip over. I can only conjecture that Cervantes was padding his novel out with such material because he wasn’t as yet fully confident of doing full justice to the story he had broached of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza: at the very least, it is surely significant that there are no such interpolated stories in the second part, where Cervantes seemed surer of his material.

Similarly with his conceit that he is narrating to us a story originally written in Arabic by a Moorish author Cide Hamete Benengeli, and that he, Cervantes, had chanced across this manuscript by accident in the market. In the eighth chapter of the first part (the one that starts with the now mythical attack on the windmills), Cervantes sets up a fight between Don Quixote and a Basque; and, just as the fight is about to commence, he tells us that he cannot narrate what happens next, as the manuscript he had been transcribing for us stops at this point. It’s a wonderful gag – of a kind we’d dub “post-modernist” or something similar – but, having introduced this conceit, Cervantes rather surprisingly does not refer to it again. As I remember from my previous readings, he has great fun with it in the second part, but I can’t help wondering whether his reticence on this matter in the first part is a consequence of his not yet having absorbed fully the implications of what he has created, and, further, being aware of the fact that there’s more there than he could immediately do justice to.

All this may give the impression of the first part of the novel being, in effect, a trial run for the more accomplished second part. That would certainly be unfair, because, if we were to ignore the tedious interpolations, what we have is clearly a work of genius. The genius lies not merely in the creation of Don Quixote and of Sancho Panza, but also in the realisation of their potential: it is a genius that recognises how powerfully the fusion of knockabout comedy with sublimity could resonate in the human mind, how a deliberate rejection of reality can appear simultaneously elevated and absurd. But I do, I admit, find it hard to resist the impression that Cervantes knew he would have to let the implications of his creations sink more deeply into his own mind before he could do them full justice; and that a second part would be called for once they have sunk in to a sufficient depth.

At the end of the first part, Don Quixote is brought back home in a cage, but Cervantes promises us there will be further adventures. There is more to El Caballero de la Triste Figura, the Knight of the Sorry Face, than has so far been apparent. Many questions remain unanswered. of which the most intriguing, for me at any rate, is: why is the Knight so sad? What great sadness of the world has he taken on? For there is, undoubtedly, a very great sadness amidst all the laughs (and Rutherford’s translation is frequently laugh-out-loud funny): Dostoyevsky famously referred to it once as the “saddest book ever written”. Does the sadness lie in the fact that the denial of reality is but a madness, and cannot be otherwise? Possibly. The ultimate reality, after all, is death: that is what we all inevitably come to. That this ultimate reality claims us all, no matter how madly we may wish to deny it, is indeed a source of infinite sadness. Anticipating somewhat, this is where the second part eventually leads us – that Ultimate Reality that cannot be gainsaid. But before then, there are many adventures yet to come for the Knight of the Sorry Face.

Starting again on “Don Quixote”

There was a time when virtually everything I read, I read for the first time. Those were the years of heady discovery, when I would survey all that I had yet to read, and determine that I would conquer, if not all, at least as much as I possibly could. It could be said, with some justice, that I was not so much a reader as a train-spotter, delighting myself by ticking off newly spotted trains on my list.

I was, of course, young then, but even in my youth, I soon became drawn to re-reading certain books – partly because I wanted to enter again those fictional worlds that had so enchanted me, and more importantly because I realised that so much of what I had already read I had not adequately taken in. Sometimes, this realisation would strike me even as I was reading the work: I could quite often sense, though not quite grasp, powerful undercurrents in what I was reading, and I’d know that I needed time for the work to sink into my consciousness; I’d know I needed to revisit. And now, with more years of reading behind me than I could possibly look forward to ahead, I find myself at a stage when the majority of what I read I have read before. I have always known, of course, that in my pursuit of literary excellence, I would never, as Alexander had done, run out of new worlds to conquer; but that realisation no longer spurs me, as it once had done, to conquer as many worlds as I possibly could: I find myself less enchanted now with the idea of conquest. What I want now is to understand as much as I can.

So now, Don Quixote. It is my fourth reading, but in some ways, it is my first: this fourth reading is my first with the mindset I now have. All books need the reader’s response to complete them, and, inevitably, my response now will be different from what it had been before.

And the translation I am reading is different also: it is John Rutherford’s version, published by Penguin Classics, and is one of a triumvirate of recent translations (the other two being by Edith Grossman and by Tom Lathrop) that have all garnered praise both for their accuracy, and for their liveliness and wit.

The first time I read Don Quixote, I was fourteen. I read the older Penguin Classics version, translated by J. M. Cohen. I found out later that this version had a reputation for being very scholarly and accurate, but a bit dull and lifeless. Certainly, “dull and lifeless” would have been at the time my own appraisal of the book, but whether this was due to the translation, or my being, as I suspect, too young to take in such a book, I don’t think I am in a position to say. My second reading came in my late 20s, when, having read a glowing recommendation of it in The Observer by the late Anthony Burgess, I excitedly purchased a re-issue of a translation made in the eighteenth century by Tobias Smollett (who, of course, was a fine novelist in his own right). Smollett’s version was everything Cohen’s wasn’t: it was colourful, lively, and very, very funny. Perhaps inevitably, Smollett had cast it in the mould of his own times: in his hands, it became an eighteenth century picaresque novel, of the kind Smollett himself used to write. It was raucous and energetic, but, many opined, it lacked the qualities of inwardness and of nobility, and the melancholy of unfulfilled and unfulfillable aspiration that had led Dostoyevsky to describe this as the “saddest of all novels”. Further, standards of translation were looser then than they are now: Smollett’s version was not always, so I’m told, the most accurate.

But so taken was I with the qualities this version possessed, I was not so concerned with those that it didn’t. So when I tackled the book again in my early 40s, it was Smollett’s version again that I went for. But now, with the new translations so widely acclaimed and so easily available, there seems no reason to put off a fourth reading. It has been about fourteen years since I last read this book: I seem to encounter it every fourteen or so years, so now is as good a time as any. Especially as so much of my reading these days is of literature written in the times of Shakespeare.

So, how should I approach this book now? It is not possible to discard all the baggage that comes with a work such as this: it is not possible, however much one tries, to put out of one’s mind what one has already heard and read. That Don Quixote is at the same time insane, in that he mistakes windmills for giants and sheep for armies, and also sane, for he can perceive in life a rare beauty that others cannot; that Sancho Panza is the ideal complement to Don Quixote because he is down-to-earth and can see the windmills and the sheep for what they are; that the novel is thus both sad and funny at one and the same time; and so on and so forth – all truisms that anyone could spout about the book without even having read a single page. Is it possible, I wonder, to put this out of my mind when reading, so I can approach it fresh? No, I don’t think it is. Inevitably, my view of Don Quixote – or of The Iliad, or of Hamlet, or of Faust, or of Anna Karenina, or of any of those books that have so exercised our collective consciousness over the centuries – is a view seen through the lens of past readers and commentators.

Well, I have started it now. And soon, I shall be posting here, no doubt, comments on it, which, since it is unlikely that I can think of anything to say about this book that has not already been said, are likely to be mere re-creations of comments that had been made before. At least in this way I can out-Borges Borges, for Borges’ Pierre Menard had merely re-written Don Quixote, whereas I, if I go about this correctly, have the opportunity of re-writing its critical commentary.

So now, in my armchair at weekends, in bed at night, on commuter trains while commuting, I find myself transported into the world of the great Don Quixote and his loving squire Sancho Panza – for, amongst other things, Don Quixote is also a great love story: rarely have two characters loved each other to the extent that Don Quixote and Sancho Panza love each other.

And sometimes, when I am not reading, I find myself listening to recordings of Richard Strauss’ magnificent tone poem Don Quixote. And when I do, I cannot help thinking that, with all due respect to John Rutherford, to Edith Grossman, and to Tom Lathrop, and, indeed, to all others who have attempted this monumental task of translating Cervantes’ novel, it is Rchard Strauss’ translation of Cervantes’ novel into a musical form may well be the greatest translation of them all.