My reading in Don Quixote is zipping along; I’m nearly up to p. 300 and enjoying it immensely. I’m now in the middle of the first of what I understand will be several long interpolated stories; I remember people saying they get a bit dull and make one long for Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to return, and I will probably feel that way eventually, but for now I’m enjoying the story of Anselmo and Lotario from “The Man Who Was Recklessly Curious.” Isn’t that a great story title?
These interpolated stories are nice reminders of just how interested Cervantes is in storytelling, and I like how he includes one just after the chapter in which the characters — Don Quixote excluded — discuss the value of those chivalric romances DQ is so obsessed with. We get discussions about the value of stories and then we get the stories themselves, so we can think about them theoretically — maybe that’s too strong a word, but we can think about what their purpose is and what makes them work along with the other characters — and then we can experience them directly. I haven’t gotten to the end of “The Man Who Was Recklessly Curious” yet, but I’ll bet when it’s finished, the characters will have a discussion of the story’s merits and perhaps of the quality of the reading (the priest reads the story out loud). I love the way Cervantes includes all these layers of story and response — and I’m only talking about the interpolated stories here, when they are only a small part of all the self-reflexivity going on.
I really got a kick out of reading Chapter 32, the one mentioned above about the merits of chivalric romances; when the priest tells the story of how these romances turned DQ’s brain, the innkeeper launches into a defense of them:
The truth is, to my mind, there’s no better reading in the world; I have two or three of them, along with some other papers, and they really have put life into me, and not only me but other people, too. Because during the harvest, many of the harvesters gather here during their time off, and there’s always a few who know how to read, and one of them takes down one of those books, and more than thirty of us sit around him and listen to him read with so much pleasure that it saves us a thousand gray hairs; at least, as far as I’m concerned, I can tell you that when I hear about those furious, terrible blows struck by the knights, it makes me want to do the same, and I’d be happy to keep hearing about them for days and nights on end.
Cervantes is clearly having a laugh at these people and the simplicity of their enjoyment and their response (they sound like modern-day boys going to see thrillers at the movies because they like the violence and the special effects), but there’s also something charming about this story of the harvesters gathering around and listening to the stories of chivalry. Their pleasure in them is infectious.
After the innkeeper speaks, several other characters give their assessment; the innkeeper’s wife, speaking to her husband, says she likes chivalric tales “because I never have any peace in my house except when you’re listening to somebody read; you get so caught up that you forget about arguing with me.” Maritornes likes the love stories, and the innkeeper’s daughter enjoys feeling sorry for the knights who are mourning the absence of their ladies. These are all unsophisticated ways of reading, and I think Cervantes wants the readers of his novels to read in more complicated ways than these characters do, but I also think Cervantes hopes his readers get some simple pleasure out of his novel too; he knows just how much fun it is to sit around and listen to stories with others or to read them in privacy, so just as much as he’s making fun of the inkeeper and his family, he’d like to be able to entertain them too.
The priest and the innkeeper then to go on to debate the truthfulness of the chivalric tales; the priest tells the innkeeper that some of the books are full of lies, while others tell stories that are based on historic events. He seems to be trying to keep fact and fiction separate and therefore to be a much more sophisticated reader than the innkeeper, who believes, much like Don Quixote does, that many of the obviously fictional tales are real. But even the priest has trouble telling what’s what; of the adventures of Diego Garcia de Paredes, one of the real-life heroes of literature, he says:
he [Diego Garcia] recounts them and writes about them himself, with the modesty of a gentleman writing his own chronicle, but if another were to write about those feats freely and dispassionately, they would relegate all the deeds of Hector, Achilles, and Roland to oblivion.
Even the priest, trying hard to teach the innkeeper how to be a more sophisticated reader, ends up mixing fact and fiction, real life and literature himself.
So when the priest tries to lecture the innkeeper on the uses of chivalric literature (they are “intended to amuse our minds in moments of idleness”) and claims that “I would have something to say about the characteristics that books of chivalry ought to have in order to be good books,” I don’t think we’re meant to take him seriously.
What we have are the priest and the innkeeper with conflicting views of what’s valuable and what’s true, and neither of them is particularly persuasive. The innkeeper is enthusiastically gullible, and the priest is more sophisticated but patronizing and lecturing and lacking in self-awareness.
I see this a challenge to the readers of Don Quixote — can we be better readers than the innkeeper and the priest? We have plenty of models of bad reading in this novel (Don Quixote himself as chief among these) — can we do any better?
Tilting at Windmills 
Wow, zipping is understatement. I’ll just keep poking along (I think I can!).
I’m definitely poking along too. The garden is calling me more often than Cervantes, I’m afraid!
Hooray, we’re at the same point it seems, Dorothy though I’m afraid that the “Recklessly Curious” is testing my will to continue.
What I found ironic about that whole scene was that during most of it the priest was lecturing on the merits of (dubious) non-fiction over fiction, but, after reading a line or two of the adapted Ariosto tale, he was immediately engrossed. And Lotario’s comment on how fictional tales can hold pearls of moral wisdom was a good answer to that as well.
Anselmo is an ass. (The harping on woman’s inferior “fragile” nature is tiresome as well, even though I can see that the actions of “the two friends” are effectively revealing the deep cracks in their superior make up.)
Quillhill and Sylvia — I’m determined to finish this as close to the end of summer as I can — once the school year starts, it’s hard to hvae a lot of books going at once.
Imani — yeah, I loved that part too, that it’s the Priest who’s reading the tale and obviously loving it, and good point about Lotario’s comment; I’d overlooked that. And I’m not sure what I think of this book’s portrayal of women — the stereotypes and generalizations are maddening, although you’re right that they don’t always come from reliable sources.
Is Don Quixote such a bad reader? I mean, he seems to remember–and put into action/effect–far more literature than I do, or could. Certainly, even my most intense reading experiences have never lead to such immersive levels of experience. Would that I could so literally lose myself to such a form of madness!
…I’m not sure how much I’m kidding with all of that. I guess it depends on what day of the work week you ask me. 🙂
Otherwise–I’ll be starting the Recklessly Curious story next time I pick up the book. Looking forward to it, actually. I ought to post some thoughts before I plug ahead.
Darby — I like your point. Yeah, DQ has his strong points as a reader, and I firmly believe that as much as Cervantes mocks DQ, he’s also very fond of him. And what author wouldn’t love a reader to be so obsessed with his/her work that the reader takes it all literally and acts it out? Okay, maybe not if it leads to the kind of violence DQ causes, but still … DQ’s best quality as a reader is his enthusiasm and what author wouldn’t love that?
Of course, I guess you can also say Don Quixote is the ultimate author of fan fiction, in so far as he doesn’t write his fan fiction, but lives it…which, well, could be hilarious or terrible, depending on your point of view.
(For thinking this was all meant to be a slightly joking point, I’ve got myself thinking, now. Darn it.)
I just read this, stopping last night before the recounting of the “novel,” The Man Who Was Recklessly Curious. (A great title, indeed.) I find myself quite delighted and guffawing out loud at how Cervantes turns the idea of books/novels/reading on its head and then spins it around again.
I also like Cervante’s playing with the question “who do you take seriously” in this novel, e.g., who is speaking with authoriy — everyone, including the narrator, is set up for a fall at some point. Sometimes I get the feeling the joke is on us, the readers, for following Quixote and these other foolish characters…
Hei, hei! Just back from a refreshing vacation in the Norwegian fjords.
Dorothy, I totally agree that Cervantes believes in the enjoyment of narratives. It is for that reason that I really can’t agree that Don Quixote is simply a criticism of knightly romances. Yes, all the way to the end MC mocks DQ, but I think early on he realized his two main characters were more interesting and had more potential than just being the object of mockery. I think there are many interesting exchanges betwen DQ and SP in the novel that hardly seem like mockery. And, yes, I know that Syliva here will disagree with me… 🙂
But here I just wanted to add to the innkeeper’s daughter’s reaction to knightly romances. Because she goes on to criticize the “coyness” of the “cruel” women who refuse to look at their knights. In Cohen’s translation: “I don’t know what’s the good of all their coyness — if it’s for the sake of their virtue, let ’em marry them, for that’s what the gentlemen are after.”
Of course, since the Cohen translation lacks notes, it’s hard to see that what she means is that “I don’t see why don’t they put out [ie. have sex with them].”
This reading confirmed by her mother’s response: “‘Be quiet, girl,’ said the landlady. ‘You seem to know rather much of these matters, and it’s not right for young ladies to know or talk so much.” But it seems that the daughter does indeed know of such matters, as later the narrator famously calls her and the prostitute Maritornes “semidoncellas,” ie. semi-virgins.
And if you are reading the basically totally noteless Cohen translation, it might be of interst to know that, while the Council of Trent (1545-1564) first required that marriage vows be attended by a priest and two other witnesses, Spain continued to practice the older contract, where only the two parties were necessary. This is best seen in the Dorotea episode, where she agrees to sex with Fernando after they both exchange marriage vows. Ie., “to marry” at the time basically meant an agreement to sex–though, as is obvious in DQ, men would often renege on the agreement, thus getting their way with women.
I should add that I think that the background to marriage contracts of Spain at the time is essential to intepreting Dorotea as either a strong or weak female character. After all, if someone agrees to do a service for me and reneges, don’t I have the right to force them to comply with the original agreement?
Of course, it helps if one views “romantic love” as a historical construct. I personally do not think that that construct was in effect in MC’s Spain.
Now now, I never said that DQ was “simply” a satire of chivalric romances. That is just one of its many facets. If the book were just one thing it wouldn’t be as great as it is.
Thanks for the explanation, Dauthendey! I’m reading the Grossman translation, which says “I don’t know the reason for so much stiffness; if they’re so virtuous, let them marry, which is just what their knights want.” It sounds like she’s saying the ladies should marry in the sense we think of it today, and that their knights are after marriage — potentially quite confusing. It seems essential to know that stuff about marriage to make sense of all this; Grossman explains it somewhere, I’m pretty sure, although I can’t remember where.
So if the “romantic love” construct isn’t in effect in MC’s Spain, then what sense do you make of the love stories in the novel?
Maybe I should rephrase what I wote about marriage in case it was misleading: When Dorotea finally agrees to sex on the condition that they get married and she brings in her maid as a witness, she does in fact legally get married in her room and thus is able to have sex without losing her virtue. So it is still marriage, only you can seal the deal with your lover right before sex without anyone else present. This happens so many times in the novel–a girl agrees to sex in her bedroom right before sex as long as he marries her–that I think it is important to note, for it seems strange to us, because it does NOT mean: Fine, I’ll have sex with you, but promise we’ll get married some day in a church at a future date. No, they are married right then and there. See Thomas Hanrahan’s excellent article “Cervantes and the Moralists” for a discussion of this, available on JStore.
So, as to the innkeeper’s daughter, she seems to be saying: Why are they such prudes? If they are worried about their virtue so much [worried about putting out before marriage?], why don’t they just marry them so their virtue wouldn’t be damaged? Whether or not she understands what exactly she is saying isn’t necessarily clear, except the “semi-virgin” label by the narrator suggests that, well, she doesn’t seem to be all that concerned with what others think of her virtue.
Sylvia, I was only joking–that’s why I added a smiley face! But it does indeed always lurk in the back of my mind that until the 18th century DQ was considered utter comedy.
Dorothy, I was taught that “romantic love” was an invention of the 18th century. But just like homosexuality was invented in the late 19th, according to Foucault, doesn’t mean that males weren’t having sex with each other before that. Well, I was so shocked upon hearing this that I never asked my professors for references to this notion, I’m afraid…
So, I admit that I’m not exactly sure what to make of it. Still, what are all those memento-mori-type poems of old about if not: We should have sex now, because your beauty will die, as we shall all. Or those dreadful John Donne poems, prized for their wittiness, but which to me are the least romantic things you can read. Or here in DQ: There are so many tales of wronged women, many of whom agreed on what seems like phyical impulse to sex, as long as marriage was included.
I mean, just look at Dorotea, which is why I brought all this up. Cohen says you can skip that part of the novel, because she is such a fool. But is she? Is she a strong or a weak female character? By our standards, she certainly seems foolish for insisting on reuniting with that bastard Fernando. But she never even knew him well in the first place. Ie, maybe this isn’t a story about “romantic love” as we know it after all, but more importantly about rights, especially her right to insist that he keep his marriage agreement.
Oops! Just realized this is a long post! I’ll just add that Goethe’s Werther seemed to not stress sex at all with Lotte. In that way, I do tend to believe that, though we’ve always had love stories, our notion of “romantic love” started at about the time of Goethe’s novel.
Ah, that’s what I get for reading in Bloglines–it strips out the smileys.