the life in don quixote
several days ago i finished reading don quixote. i have been reading it since september, and i now i am somewhat sad that it is over. more than once i have found myself remembering the voices of quixote and sancho. i thinking about what they might say in a situation, and i miss those voices.
it took me awhile to begin really enjoying the book. in fact, it took about 200 pages. thankfully, this left about 800 pages more to enjoy. i think started out reading incorrectly. i was waiting for things to happen in the story, and i was reading too quickly. i was missing much of the playfulness and creativity that makes cervantes so delightful to read (and which, apparently, comes through even in translation, at least in part). i was skimming over lines i should have savored.
thinking back on don quixote, what stands first in my mind is the way that life fills its pages. and not just life at its noblest or grandest, but life in the mundane and commonplace as well -the life of village peasants and shepherds, soldiers and prostitutes, religious pilgrims and pirates. in the situations he sets up, and even more so in the dialogue he writes, cervantes somehow captures the rollicking abundance of human life. cervantes, of course, is a master of poking fun at human folly, whether the folly of knight-errants or inn-keepers. but in making fun he is also celebrating life. in the laughter there is an acceptance of life, an affirmation.
augustine made much of the connection between love and delight. i wonder if something similar is not at work here: cervantes seemed to delight in life, and that sense of delight pervades don quixote. that is why the joking, in the end, does not give way to cynicism or despair, but rather expresses and builds up a love of life.
at the same time, however, there is also a subtle but unshakable melancholy in don quixote. perhaps it is the melancholy of time's passing: the sense that the age of chivalry is over, the feeling of a world grown old. in feeling this melancholy, we recognize that something wonderful is passing, and that the wonder which is our own lives will also pass. such melancholy is not the negation of the love of life, but rather its companion. it is because we love life that the awareness of life's impermanence fills us with sadness. this sadness is not the same as fear or despair. it is mixed with pain, because it a recognition of loss. but it is also mixed with thanksgiving, because this fleeting life is so unspeakably beautiful.
it took me awhile to begin really enjoying the book. in fact, it took about 200 pages. thankfully, this left about 800 pages more to enjoy. i think started out reading incorrectly. i was waiting for things to happen in the story, and i was reading too quickly. i was missing much of the playfulness and creativity that makes cervantes so delightful to read (and which, apparently, comes through even in translation, at least in part). i was skimming over lines i should have savored.
thinking back on don quixote, what stands first in my mind is the way that life fills its pages. and not just life at its noblest or grandest, but life in the mundane and commonplace as well -the life of village peasants and shepherds, soldiers and prostitutes, religious pilgrims and pirates. in the situations he sets up, and even more so in the dialogue he writes, cervantes somehow captures the rollicking abundance of human life. cervantes, of course, is a master of poking fun at human folly, whether the folly of knight-errants or inn-keepers. but in making fun he is also celebrating life. in the laughter there is an acceptance of life, an affirmation.
augustine made much of the connection between love and delight. i wonder if something similar is not at work here: cervantes seemed to delight in life, and that sense of delight pervades don quixote. that is why the joking, in the end, does not give way to cynicism or despair, but rather expresses and builds up a love of life.
at the same time, however, there is also a subtle but unshakable melancholy in don quixote. perhaps it is the melancholy of time's passing: the sense that the age of chivalry is over, the feeling of a world grown old. in feeling this melancholy, we recognize that something wonderful is passing, and that the wonder which is our own lives will also pass. such melancholy is not the negation of the love of life, but rather its companion. it is because we love life that the awareness of life's impermanence fills us with sadness. this sadness is not the same as fear or despair. it is mixed with pain, because it a recognition of loss. but it is also mixed with thanksgiving, because this fleeting life is so unspeakably beautiful.
posted by micah at 11:57 AM
2 Comments:
I admire your tenacity with fiction. I rarely have it, but it often seems to pay off in such a big way for you. That seems like a metaphor for life, somehow. :)
Also, I really resonated with your last paragraph. I don't think grief is beautiful in itself, but there's something right about what you're saying--that it is evidence that you see and appreciate and love the beauty in that which you are grieving.
And--glad to see you blogging again!!! I thought you might have given up...
Where I am:
"'No one's gotten me pregnant'...'and I'm not the kind of man who lets himself get pregnant, not even by the king, and though I may be poor, I'm an Old Christian...'" (chapter 47)
(I think I've laughed more reading this book than any other book in recent memory. The humor feels full and real despite, or because of perhaps, its absurdity.)
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