Don Quixote is an odd book. Often considered the first modern novel, it reads more like a collection of short stories. While there are a series of strong overarching themes which permeate the book, there's not really any general overarching story. The titular Don and his companion Sancho Panza travel the land, writing wrongs, making silly mistakes, and getting into various amusing hijinks. And, really, that's enough to carry things.
Cervantes is, above all else, a superb writer of comedy. His dialogue, double entendres, and knack for writing physical comedy are the most consistently excellent aspect of Don Quixote. In many cases it reads like a far more modern comedy; the slapstick is constant and always humorous and the comedy, in general, never feels forced or routine. Above all else, this book is funny, and that's not something you can say about many 17th century classics.
None of the comedy would be possible, of course, without an adequate translation from the original Spanish. Edith Grossman's translation is more than up to the task; it reads flowingly and beautifully and includes excellent footnotes illuminating Cervantes' clever wordplay in the original Spanish that is lost in the English text. So natural is Grossman's work that I would regularly forget that I was reading a translation at all, until I came across a bit that needed to be rectified with these footnotes. This is such a superb feat of translation that I have grown to consider this to be the best translation of literature I have read thus far. It's utterly fantastic. I can't say enough positive things about Grossman's work here.
Don Quixote is popularly known as a celebration of romanticism, but often reads quite the opposite. Quixote is responsible for various damages to property and grievous injury among the poor people he comes into contact with, including the wanton killing of several sheep in a shepherd's flock, the disruption of funeral rites resulting in a peasant's leg being broken (which, during the time period, may in extreme cases be as good as a death sentence if it removes a peasant's ability to work the land), and other such instances. I found myself disliking Don Quixote early, and found these stories to be an example of why living a make-believe life with your head in the clouds is a terrible thing, rather than an admirable quality. Quite different than what I expected, and the reputation this book has.
Sancho Panza, representing the practical realist, quickly became my favorite character. Although he appears otherwise, he's more intelligent than Quixote and often goes along with the titular character's hijinks in full awareness of their ridiculousness, if only to garner a flask of wine as a result. He's a lovable scoundrel, whereas I view Don Quixote a moronic, mentally ill, misled figure. I understand that that's part of Quixote's charm, but it didn't work for me. Perhaps I'm too cynical to appreciate the whimsy in the moon-brained romantic, and thus instead gravitate towards the ill-bred rogue.
With this book, Cervantes reminds me of a 400-year old Quentin Tarantino; a man so hopelessly in love with his favorite medium that it bleeds through his work, constantly making itself known. There are an endless number of references to romantic renaissance fiction from years past within these pages, works on works that I've never heard of, all helpfully cited in the footnotes of this edition. I found it amusing that Don Quixote, in its contemporary period, was a strongly influenced spin-off and commentary of works already in existence, despite its existence to us as a ground-breaking work of originality. Also amusing is the fact that Cervantes always planned the book to be concluded at the end of its first part, and only found himself driven to write the second part when unofficial sequels to his initial great work were being produced. The second part is a bit of a departure in style, but stands up to the first, in my opinion. It makes me curious as to the quality of said unofficial sequels that were produced.
None of the comedy would be possible, of course, without an adequate translation from the original Spanish. Edith Grossman's translation is more than up to the task; it reads flowingly and beautifully and includes excellent footnotes illuminating Cervantes' clever wordplay in the original Spanish that is lost in the English text. So natural is Grossman's work that I would regularly forget that I was reading a translation at all, until I came across a bit that needed to be rectified with these footnotes. This is such a superb feat of translation that I have grown to consider this to be the best translation of literature I have read thus far. It's utterly fantastic. I can't say enough positive things about Grossman's work here.
Don Quixote is popularly known as a celebration of romanticism, but often reads quite the opposite. Quixote is responsible for various damages to property and grievous injury among the poor people he comes into contact with, including the wanton killing of several sheep in a shepherd's flock, the disruption of funeral rites resulting in a peasant's leg being broken (which, during the time period, may in extreme cases be as good as a death sentence if it removes a peasant's ability to work the land), and other such instances. I found myself disliking Don Quixote early, and found these stories to be an example of why living a make-believe life with your head in the clouds is a terrible thing, rather than an admirable quality. Quite different than what I expected, and the reputation this book has.
Sancho Panza, representing the practical realist, quickly became my favorite character. Although he appears otherwise, he's more intelligent than Quixote and often goes along with the titular character's hijinks in full awareness of their ridiculousness, if only to garner a flask of wine as a result. He's a lovable scoundrel, whereas I view Don Quixote a moronic, mentally ill, misled figure. I understand that that's part of Quixote's charm, but it didn't work for me. Perhaps I'm too cynical to appreciate the whimsy in the moon-brained romantic, and thus instead gravitate towards the ill-bred rogue.
With this book, Cervantes reminds me of a 400-year old Quentin Tarantino; a man so hopelessly in love with his favorite medium that it bleeds through his work, constantly making itself known. There are an endless number of references to romantic renaissance fiction from years past within these pages, works on works that I've never heard of, all helpfully cited in the footnotes of this edition. I found it amusing that Don Quixote, in its contemporary period, was a strongly influenced spin-off and commentary of works already in existence, despite its existence to us as a ground-breaking work of originality. Also amusing is the fact that Cervantes always planned the book to be concluded at the end of its first part, and only found himself driven to write the second part when unofficial sequels to his initial great work were being produced. The second part is a bit of a departure in style, but stands up to the first, in my opinion. It makes me curious as to the quality of said unofficial sequels that were produced.
This isn't my favorite book, but it was a whole heap of a lot more enjoyable than I expected it to be, and I'm wholly unsurprised that it maintains its reputation, more than four centuries after its inception.
⭐⭐⭐
