Intertextuality

From my window

From my window

Not snow
these white flecks

floating flocons
wind drifted
past my window

they rise
rarely fall
never settle

blown pollen
post-lapsarian

the grass white
when they caress
sheltered places

white blossoms
on the mountain ash
sunshine
hidden within this cloud

not quite a snow storm
this pollen
drifting

Comment:

So, Moo’s taken to reading the poetry of Lorca. This is his second green painting from Lorca’s Verde, que te quiero verde. Funny – I speak a little bit of Spanish, but I didn’t know that Moo did. I didn’t even know he could read, let alone read Spanish. I know – that’s a little bit mean. That’s the problem with being neuro-diverse and a split personality – you never know which half your speaking to or from.

I guess that’s why Moo paints. So many things come out in color and shape that have no need of words. Such a strange thing, literacy. What a blessing it is to have the ability to read and write. Color and shape double or quadruple the quality of creation that a person can engender. Taking a line for a walk or making meaning out of color and shape is so very different from the careful reproduction of vowels and consonants in the correct order.

And who is to say what the correct order is? I have known people who have claimed that their fifth grade teacher taught them everything they know about writing. Really? Alas, I never went to grade school, so North American. I don’t know what grade a five education is or means. But ‘everything about writing’ – wow! I am 82 and still learning. I guess I am just a slow learner, perhaps that’s why I have always been a low earner too. Still, penny wise, pound foolish. Or should that be scent wise, smell foolish Or cent wise, dollar foolish. Or dollar foolish, cent wise.

Okay – so what is the correct word order? I guess I had better enroll in grade five and find out. Unless one of you out there can enlighten me. Mule? Dog sled? Drone? Your choice. They are digging up the road at the end of our road and I am not going into town until the tarmac’s back down. “And when will that be,” sing the bells out at Battersea. “I do not know,” booms the great bell of Bowe. Or you could send it by Bowe Street Runner aka the chasqui. Now that will sift you out! I bet they don’t teach that in grade five.

Railway Station 2

Railway Bridge

walking away
from Swansea sands

me crossing the bridge
shaking sand
from my sandals

a rare event
Swansea Bay Station
Cline Valley Line
a train at the platform

the station master
blows his whistle
doors close
slowly the train goes
under the bridge

I stand in a cloud
wrapped up
half-blinded
in huge puffs of smoke

filling my lungs
assaulting nostrils and eyes
with the sting of cinders
the stench of burning coal

sting and stench
and that short sharp whistle

they linger and cling
unforgettable
in my mind’s dark corner

Railway Bridge

2

walking away
from Swansea sands

me crossing the bridge
shaking sand
from my sandals

a rare event
Swansea Bay Station
Cline Valley Line
a train at the platform

the station master
blows his whistle
doors close
slowly the train goes
under the bridge

I stand in a cloud
wrapped up
half-blinded
in huge puffs of smoke

filling my lungs
assaulting nostrils and eyes
with the sting of cinders
the stench of burning coal

sting and stench
they linger and cling
unforgettable cobwebs
in my mind’s dark corridors
and never forget
that short sharp whistle

Comment 1:

Me and my writing buddy also discussed linked poems. This is simply a chain in which each poem links back to another one. Yesterday, we wrote about Swansea Sands and how the poem was generated. Today we can look at the linking between that poem and this one, the old railway bridge that crossed the railway lines by Swansea Bay Station, and led back into Swansea, a town in those days, and the Civic Centre. Note, now, that each of those names could generate further links, further poems in the chain.

When we think of the great chain of being, we think of how all things are linked. From the Great Western Railway (GWR), to the Mumbles Railway, to the Cline Valley Branch line, and beyond. Each poem a railway station along the way. Main line, branch line, express train, goods train … links everywhere, and each link encapsulated in a memory of one kind or another. How could we not write poetry about such things?

McAdam Railway Station, in New Brunswick, Canada. 60 trains a day used to stop here. Now the station is a landmark, a memory, a place where ghost trains run and shadowy figures run wild up and down the grass grown tracks where the sleepers sleep, their dreams undisturbed. I could write a book of poems about this station. Wait a second, I already have and Geoff Slater, my painting buddy, decorated it for me with his wonderful paintings and drawings. What more can I say? Each link in the chain, a potential poem. Each stop along the way, material enough for a painting, a poem, or a book.

Comment 2:

So, what happens when we change the photo? What if we add a branch line or two to the original poem? How does this affect our idea of creativity, poetic creativity? What happens when we add a different sketch from my painting buddy’s wonderful set of drawings? Oh-oh, that’s not my painting buddy – that’s a set of graffiti on a passing railway car. Sorry, painting buddy, please forgive me. But hey, wait a minute – de gustibus non est disputando – there is no arguing about taste. Somebody painted that box car and enjoyed doing it. Where does art begin? Where does it end? How formal can it be? How informal? How many railway stations do we stop at? I guess it depends on the length of the journey. But one thing I know, don’t get off the train until you reach your destination!

Railway Bridge

Railway Bridge

walking away
from Swansea sands

me crossing the bridge
shaking sand
from my sandals

a rare event
Swansea Bay Station
Cline Valley Line
a train at the platform

the station master
blows his whistle
doors close
slowly the train goes
under the bridge

I stand in a cloud
wrapped up
half-blinded
in huge puffs of smoke

Comment:

Swansea Sands

Swansea Sands

walking home
over the railway bridge

sand in my hair
sand in my socks

sand in my sandals
sand like sandpaper
sanding me down

tides rise and fall
sea gulls call
the bay so big
and me so small
as tiny as a tiny
grain of sand

Comment:

Not Swansea Sands at all, sorry. But a sandy beach all the same, here on the southern shores of New Brunswick, down by St. Andrews. The theme of the poem comes from Blake’s ‘to see the world in a grain of sand’. It might not be Swansea Sands, but there’s a great deal of sand down on the southern shores of NB. I worked on this poem with one of my writing buddies, who visits me regularly. We shared an impromptu creative writing session over the kitchen table in Island View a couple of days ago. Alas, as you probably know, there are no islands in Island View, and there’s not a grain of sea sand in sight. So we improvised.

We started with a central idea – a grain of sand – and from there we talked about how to generate a poem, from scratch so to speak, in three steps.

(1) The first draft.

Write as it comes to you – just write. Just bounce from word to word, line to line, like a supercharged, literate budgie. Take about 3-4 minutes for this. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, checking on sound and rhythm.

(2) Second draft.

– Eliminate words and ideas that do not fit the central image. Remove anything loose or unclear. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, concentrating on sound and rhythm.

(3) Third draft.

Polish and finalize the poem. Sometimes a fourth draft is needed, but in this case we settled with the third draft. At this stage, pay careful attention to the poem’s ending (closure is always difficult). Reorder, add, and polish, as necessary. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, checking on sound and rhythm.

From the initial image – to see the world in a grain of sand – I generated two poems. My partner / writing buddy generated a short story that would fit into their current sequence of childhood memories. Other ideas for further poems also came through.

Conclusions;

Make your poems alive, make them personal, make them an experience!
Remember rhythm. And never forget the necessity of a live reading or series of readings in which you can feel and hear the words.
An alterative to a live reading with a partner / writing buddy is to record your own voice. The recordings can then be sent to friends who can comment on them.

Red Cloud of Reality

Red Cloud of Reality

Far from the city lights
this night sky
a black umbrella
held above my head

the brolly’s fabric
pierced by pin-pricks
silent stars careless
in their indifference

las night a cloud of unknowing
descended – wrapped itself
blanket-like around my house
brought warmth and comfort

today I sit alone and lost
head in hand – searching for sustenance
seeking the freedom to sky walk
to turn schemes and dreams into facts

Person holding a glowing umbrella overlooking a neon cyberpunk cityscape at night — A figure under a starry sky, holding an illuminated umbrella.

Big Brother painted this.
He’s watching you.

Comments:

Me and Moo back sharing poems and paintings, thoughts expressed in words and paint. How nice to be together again. Never mind the weather, as long as we’re together. Careful now, The Red Cloud of Reality is not part of a Wild West Show. There are no elephants and kangaroos in this part of the world. How cryptic can we be? I don’t know. Look carefully at Moo’s painting. Can you see an elephant or a kangaroo? Not unless they are fossilized, methinks. Fossilized before our eyes. Oh what fun it is to ride on a one engine sky red slay along with the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Lone Ranger. But how can he be a Lone Ranger if he’s accompanied? Don’t ask me, ask Tonto. Jay’s the one who knows everything. He even knows who that masked man is. I know, I know – he’s a survive of Covid, very wise, because he always wore a mask. And what did you do during Covid? Well, I didn’t shine bright lights inside my system. I didn’t drink Drano – a cure all for everything, if you’re a drain pipe. Me? A drain pipe? I don’t even wear drainpipe trousers. Oh those were that days. No parking meters outside our doors to greet us! Fings aint what they used to be. Figs, neither. And that’s why Syrup of Figs is all the rage Even better than Cod Liver Oil. I bet you don’t remember Scott’s Emulsion? Indeed I do. I also remember Eno’s Fruit Salts. Made you really happy they did as you rowed merrily, merrily down the stream of consciousness into the Land of Nod. You mean Toytown – the land of Noddy, Big Ears, and Mr. Plod. Big ears? See – an African Elephant. I knew there was one in there somewhere. And here he comes, blowing his own trumpet. How does an elephant commit suicide? I won’t tell you. I refuse to give King’s Evidence, even if you do put me in the soup – Cream of Kangaroo Court, of course. I bet you didn’t see that one coming. Hop along, now. Here comes Cassidy les Calanques and he don’t wait for nobo-doddy even if his name’s really Ken. I don’t get it. I didn’t get it either. That’s how I stayed clear of Covid. Ha! Try translating that little piece from Welsh into Basque. You’ll end up in a basket, cased like all those other little boiled egos, with their little legos. Never mind – “il faut imaginer Moo heureux!” / We must believe that Moo is happy.

Translation Theory

Ryan and Don Roger

Translation Theory
(revised 3 May 2026)

In DQI, IX, Cervantes, in his role of first-person narrator, goes to the Alcana in Toledo, where he discovers an Arabic manuscript containing the adventures of Don Quixote. The first eight chapters of our novel contain no mention of a translator. Suddenly one appears. The narrator buys the manuscript, finds a translator, takes the translator to his house, and in six weeks receives a translation, from Arabic into Spanish, of the novel. Question – does the translation contain Chapters 1-8, already written by Cervantes, or not? Alas, we do not know. Is the translation accurate? We do not know that either, for the original Arabic manuscript is a literary illusion and does not exist.

However, we do know that Cervantes writes that ‘reading a translation is like looking at the reverse side of a tapestry’. Speaking of the Italian poet, Boiardo, the priest, in DQI, 6, says “If I find him here speaking in any language but his own I shall show him no respect. But if he speaks his own tongue, I will wear him next to my heart.” The priest continues, “That is what happens with all authors who translate poetry into other languages. However much care they take, and however much skill they show, they can never make their translations as good as the original.”

Of course, with no original for the Quixote, there can be no translation theory. So, let us try to construct one. In the course of my own work, I have studied various translations of Quevedo’s poem Miré los muros de la patria mía. I will use them to see how translations can function, and what happens when we look at the reverse side of the tapestry. First, Quevedo’s poem in the original Spanish. Then a direct, line by line translation of it, for those who do not read Spanish.

Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.

Salíme al campo, vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sus sombras hurtó su luz al día.

Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo más corvo y menos fuerte;

vencida de la edad sentí mi espada.
Y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.

I looked at the walls of my fatherland, (line 1) if once strong, now crumbling, (line 2) from the passing of age tired, (line 3) which wears out their bravery. (line 4) I went out to the field, saw that the sun was drinking (line 5) the streams from the ice untied, (line 6) and of the hill complaining the herds, (line 7) whose shadows stole the light of day. (line 8) I entered my house; I saw that, stained, (line 9) of an ancient habitation it was the spoils; (line 10) my cane more curved and less strong; (line 11) conquered by age I sensed my sword. (line 12) And I didn’t find a thing on which to turn my eyes (line 13) that was not a reminder of death. (line 14).

This very literal translation, with all its inaccuracies and its inability to express the hidden cultural depths of the original, is totally unpoetic and inadequate, compared to the genius of the original version. Other prose translations have been offered by J. M. Cohen and Elías Rivers, and they are much more accurate – and much better (!), than mine.

Brave poetic translations, also at times somewhat distant from the original, have been published by Robert Lowell, David Gitlitz, and Griswald Morley / Charles Cobb revising the version of John Masefield. Alas, I do not have permission to replicate their versions. However, I called the translations ‘inadequate’, but they aren’t really they are just the best we can do. Robert Lowell, himself an outstanding poet, gave us much more than a translation. He gave us what I like to think of as a recreation, a new poem based upon the old original. Translations and re-creations, two very different kettles of fish! I offer you here two of my own efforts at recreating the poem!

I looked at the defenses of my native land:
empty silos, bombs and rockets melted down.
“Put your faith,” the TV said, “in diplomacy,
not in the metal walls of flying ships.” I went

outside. Cattle were lowing against the falling
temperature, tails to the wind. Steam
rose from their flanks, then was scattered
like an overnight dream of ghosts. Inside,

on the sink, a shrivelled tea bag, dried up stains;
my trusty coffee pot, rusty on the stove,
was chipped and raw at the rim. I took

my shot gun in my hand. Its crooked barrels
served me as a walking-stick. As I limped
around, my mother’s photo spoke to me of death.

2
I’ve got something to say, so here’s what I’ll do
I’ll write it out in rap with a rhythm just for you.
I once saw a town with a very small wall
that’s so fallen down it’s no wall at all.
It’s old and it’s rotten and it cannot last
like a runner on the track who’s run too fast
at the start of the race, and he’s run out of breath,
so he’s hit that wall, and he feels like death.
And there’s cattle lowing and the sun’s in the sky
but it’s winter time, so the sun’s not high,
and the shadows are long, and the wind’s getting cold,
and it’s all about a man who’s growing old.
He looks around his house and all he sees
are dead people’s faces and living memories.
He’s trapped on the ground floor, can’t climb stairs,
everything he touches he’ll leave to his heirs.
There’s a pain in his side, and he can’t catch his breath,
and all that he sees, reminds him of death!

A rap sonnet (14 lines) containing nine pairs of rhymed couplets (18 lines)? The good Don Francisco de Quevedo will be turning in his grave and his still-warm ashes will once again be burning with love for Lisi and the joy of being alive, in one form or another, in spite of the River Styx, which the flame of his love could swim and not be lost forever.

So, when looking at translation theory, what can we set down? First, it is very difficult to capture the full cultural meaning of the original because each word has an associative field that differs in each language. The associative field is the word itself, with all its secondary meanings and concepts. Mi espada / my sword is an excellent example. Quevedo, in spite of his infirmities, was a master swordsman. His sword remained unconquered, save by age itself. We no longer walk around with swords sheathed at our sides. The meaning, therefore, in all its sadness and profundity, cannot be captured by our translation skills. The words just do not have the weight.

The grammatical structures, inversion of words, for example, cannot easily be reproduced in English translation. Line 3 – from the passing of age tired – just doesn’t sound right. And yet, it is curiously accurate – but not English. Oh dear. Line 6 – the streams from the ice untied – Line 7 – of the hill complaining the herds – Line 10 – of an ancient habitation it was the spoils – no, sorry, these inversions just do not function in English.

In addition, the rhythm and the syllable count of each line of the original is lost in translation. Whatever you say about it, the rhythm of my rap sonnet emphasizes the importance of beat and tempo. Great fun to read aloud, and when reading it to an audience, watch their faces and then their feet. I have actually seen some listeners tap-dancing during my reading! And the scowls of those who cannot believe the impertinence of a translator who translates into rap music the classical lines of a poetic genius. Finally, the rhyme scheme will almost always defeat the would-be translator who approaches it as a target, while never quite mastering the reproductive technique, other than approximation. The structure of Quevedo’s original rhyme scheme is 14 hendecasyllabic (eleven syllable) lines rhyming abba / abba / cde / cde. This is all very difficult to reproduce in English with its eternal iambic pentameter. Therefore, we must be satisfied, like it or not, with the reverse side of the tapestry, as Cervantes calls it.

Tales Within A Tale

Open book with glowing three-dimensional fantasy map showing mountains, forest, castles, and sea with ships and lighthouses. — A magical book opens to reveal a glowing 3D map with mountains and sea landscapes.

Image generated by AI

Ryan and Don Roger

Tales within a Tale

Don Quixote, the novel, is a tale that tells the story of Don Quixote and his adventures. While the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and their delightful dialogs are the essence of the story, other stories abound. These ‘other stories’ are known, in academia, as the intercalated novels. They are tales told of and by other characters within the main history of the adventures of the ingenious hidalgo. While the characters within some of these intercalated novels mix at one level or another into the story of Don Quixote, some of them do not.

The Tale of Foolish Curiosity, DQI, XXXIII / 33 -XXXV / 35, has very little to do with the story of Don Quixote, other than the fact that our knight is present in the inn while the tale is being told. We know that in Italy, Boccaccio’s Decameron, was a key player in the genre of story-telling. Our friends at AI tell us that “the Decameron is a collection of short stories by the 14th-century Italian author Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375). The book is structured as a frame story containing 100 tales told by a group of seven young women and three young men. They are sheltering in a secluded villa outside Florence to escape the Black Death. No television, no radio. They amuse themselves by telling stories. The various tales of love in The Decameron range from the erotic to the tragic. Tales of wit, practical jokes, and life lessons also contribute to the mosaic. In addition to its literary value and widespread influence (for example on Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, it provides a document of life at the time. It is considered a masterpiece of early Italian prose.”

What is The Tale of Foolish Curiosity doing in the Quixote?One suggestion is the hinge theory – the tale links thematically to the ideas expressed in the Quixote. We have just met several intercalated novels in which the theme of love plays a major role. The Tale of Foolish Curiosity is a psychological novel, written in the Italianate style favored by Cervantes, that explores the theme of folly in love. A second theory is that The Tale of Foolish Curiosity is there merely for entertainment. A third is that it is there to demonstrate Cervantes’s writing skills. Whichever reason pleases us most, and all can be equally true, we know from DQ2, III /3, that not every reader was happy with the inclusion of this tale in DQI.

In this chapter, Sampson Carrasco, the Bachelor, tells us that “One of the faults they find in this history … is that the author inserted a novel called The Tale of Foolish Curiosity – not that it is bad or badly told, but because it is out of place and has nothing to do with the story of his worship Don Quixote.” In response, our knight replies “Now I believe that the author of my story is no sage but an idle chatterer.” The Tale of Foolish Curiosity is the only intercalated novel criticized in this fashion. Let us take a brief look at the others.

The story of Chrysostom and Marcela (DQI, XII, XIII, XIV) involves our knight errant, for the characters in the intercalated novel, interact with Don Quixote, Marcela, in particular. When she wishes to leave the scene, the young men who love her and follow her against her will wish to follow her, but Don Quixote defends her, and prohibits their pursuit of the shepherdess. In similar fashion, the tale of Cardenio and Lucinda is woven into the narrative of Don Quixote’s adventures, Cardenio appearing in DQI, XXIII, XXIV, and again in XXVII. The first meeting between them (DQI, XXII) is justly famous. Two foolish people, the Ragged Knight and the Knight of the Sad Countenance, meet, embrace, and look deeply into each others mad eyes.

Almost immediately (DQI, XXVIII), Dorothea appears on the scene and starts to tell the tale of her own misfortunes. They are interwoven with the tale of Cardenio and Lucinda, although they are not aware of it. Dorothea learns of the plot to deceive Don Quixote and bring him back to his village and willingly agrees to play the part of a distressed lady in search of a knight errant to rescue her. Don Quixote accedes to her request. When they spend the night at an inn, first they hear The Tale of Foolish Curiosity and the captive, recently escaped from Algiers, appears and tells his tale (DQII, XXXIX, XL, XLI). Yet more adventures occur at the inn, and several more characters weave their own tales into the tale of Don Quixote.

Two clear patterns emerge. (1) Tales that are independent in their majority, of the knight’s story. (2) Tales that are interwoven closely with the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. This style of events changes in DQII, after the intervention of ten years (1605-1615) during which Cervantes receives and processes feedback from his many readers. As we will see when we get there, Don Quixote and Sancho become the key figures in what will become the first self-referring novel (more about that later), and all the tales told within DQII will be woven into the stories of what will become, thanks to the split narrative, our two adventurers.

Meanwhile, in 1613, Cervantes published his Novelas ejemplares, a collection of twelve short stories (novellas) that showcase his mastery of narrative beyond Don Quixote. These tales range from realistic depictions of 17th-century Spanish life to idealized, romantic adventures, designed to offer both entertainment and moral instruction. Some critics have speculated that Cervantes might have been thinking of including these novels is an expanded version of Don Quixote. However, if he did have that idea, he certainly abandoned it, given his own criticism of The Tale of Foolish Curiosity. I think, given the quality and expanded dimensions of DQII (1615), we can all be happy that he abandoned that idea!

Spring Cleaning

Spring Cleaning

Sun’s yellow duster
arrived late this year
gray cobwebs still
clutter my mind

I try to brush them away
with clumsy fingers
but stubbornly they stick
and cling and will not go

Spring came in with snow
gales and icy rain

Warm winds will soon
spring showers bring
to revive cold clay
and help things grow

Comment:

We have lived in this house for 37 years, but only once have I seen ducks land on the snow-covered lawn. Whatever were they thinking? Good question – do ducks think? They are living beings, so of course they do. But I am totally unaware of what they think nor am I able to understand the nature of their mental computations.

We share this world with so many creatures that we do not understand. I wonder sometimes if they understand us. Who knows? If we cannot speak their multiple languages, if we cannot enter their culture and their minds, if we see them as nothing but food and devour them as fast as we can, never thinking of them at all, save as more or less savoury items on our dinner plate — les meurtiers et les victimes, as Albert Camus wrote. Murderers and victims – and we are both. Murderers of our victims and victims ourselves to our unbounded greed.

Lure of the Picaresque Novel

Ryan and Don Roger

Lure of the Picaresque Novel

Let us begin by asking – what is the picaresque novel? According to Wikipedia, “the picaresque novel, is a genre of prose fiction that depicts the adventures of a roguish but appealing hero, usually of a low social class who lives by his wits in a corrupt society. Picaresque novels typically adopt the form of an episodic prose narrative with a realistic style.”

Is Don Quixote a picaresque novel? It has been called a picaresque novel by English standards, but rarely, if ever, by Spanish ones. Yes, Don Quixote is prose fiction that relates the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. However, while Sancho is of low social class, Quixote himself most certainly isn’t. He is a landowner, with an expensive library, and a solid education. He is literate, though Sancho is not. Does Don Quixote live by his wits? Good question. Some would say yes, he does. Others, including the first-person narrator in DQI, I/1, would say his brain was so decayed with his all-night readings that it had dried up and he had no wits left to lose. Is the society around him corrupt? This is a much more difficult question to answer.

In an earlier discussion, The Golden Age, we saw that Don Quixote, in his speech to the goat herds, contrasted the idyllic golden age of the Edenic pastoral with the corruption of contemporary society. As we mentioned earlier, neither description is truly accurate. As for the society in which Don Quixote moves, he meets, in the course of the novel, more than 600 characters, many of them unforgettable, some of whom are good, and some bad. More, Cervantes’s description of Spanish society is so wide and it is painted in such depth that it is hard to generalize and call that society corrupt. In addition, while Don Quixote meets low class characters in his travellers, he also mingles with judges, high ranking churchmen, country gentlemen, and even dukes and duchesses. Case made, I would hope.

One further point on the picaresque, while the peripatetic novel may be considered picaresque in English, it is not picaresque in Spanish unless it is narrated in the first-person singular. The first word in Quevedo’s Buscón is ‘Yo’ / ‘I’ – “Yo, señor soy de Segovia.” / “I, sir, am from Segovia.” Then Pablos goes on to tell his own life story. On the other hand, the first-person narrator at the beginning of Don Quixote tells the story of the knight. He does not tell his own story, even though elements of his personal life are included within the knight’s tale.

That said, elements of the picaresque do occur in the Quixote. The most important sequence can be found in DQI, XXII / 22, The freeing of the galley slaves. In this chapter, Don Quixote and Sancho meet a chain gang of low-class criminals who are en route to the coast to serve penal sentences chained to the oars of the King’s galleys. When Sancho tells his master that these men are forced, against their will, to serve in the galleys, Don Quixote sees an opportunity to employ his knightly skills – “this is a case for the exercising of my profession, for the redressing of outrages and the succouring and relieving of the wretched.”

Don Quixote then asks each criminal in turn about the crimes they have committed. Big problem – in the same way that the goat herds have not understood a word of Don Quixote’s learned language, the knight is unable to understand the thieves’ slang of the galley slaves. There follows a series of misinterpretations. The first slave fell in love, the second had been singing, the third was short of a small sum of money, the fourth paraded the streets in state and on horse back, and the fifth had been caught up in an intricate tangle of relationships. Don Quixote cannot comprehend any of this and interprets each word in its literal, dictionary meaning.

He doesn’t understand that the man in love was in love with someone else’s belongings, the singer had ‘sung’, ie confessed under torture, the third didn’t have enough money to bribe the judge, the fourth had been whipped through the streets, guilty of procuring, and possibly witchcraft, and the fifth had been involved in irregular sexual adventures with a wide range of people, some related and others not. Poor Don Quixote is baffled by this language.

The sixth prisoner, the famous Gines de Pasamonte, is a different kettle of fish, for he has, in true picaresque fashion, written his own life story with his own fingers. Translated – he has written his own picaresque novel with himself in the starring role. When Don Quixote asks if the book is good, Gines replies that “it is so good … that Lazarillo de Tormes will have to look out, and so will everything else in that style …” “Is it finished?” Don Quixote asks him. “How can it be … if my life isn’t?” is the reply.

So, that is the story of Don Quixote’s encounter with the picaresque. It is a style that Cervantes tended to avoid, preferring at this stage the Italianate, the pastoral, the romance, and his own invention of the novel as a reinvention of the epic poem that can be written in prose. The picaresque was certainly a temptation for Cervantes, for he leaned towards that style from time to time in Don Quixote, and also in a couple of his exemplary novels (1612), namely Rinconete y Cortadillo and El Coloquio delosPerros, among others. That said, Don Quixote is certainly not a picaresque novel, in the Spanish sense of the word.

The Golden Age

Ryan and Don Roger

The Golden Age

Don Quixote begins his discourse on the Golden Age (DQI, XI/11) with these words: “Happy the age and happy the times on which the ancients bestowed the name of golden, not because gold, which in this iron age of ours is rated so highly, was attainable without labour in those fortunate times, but rather because the people of those days did not know those two words thine and mine. In that blessed age all things were held in common.”

Several things of note. First, the length of the sentences. Remember we are reading about a society in which the majority of people were still illiterate, knowing neither how to read nor to write. Earlier, in the same chapter, when Don Quixote describes his role as a knight errant, we read that “The goatherds did not understand this gibberish about squires and knights errant, but just watched in silence …”

Don Quixote goes on to describe the perfect pastoral life in the course of which nymphs and shepherds could go about their daily lives living in peace, love, and justice, and aways at one with the land. It is interesting to read about this idealistic and escapist pastoral myth that takes place in a land overflowing with milk and honey. Now compare it with the reality of the illiterate goatherds who slaughter and consume their own goats, devour dried, wrinkled acorns, and eat rock hard, age-old cheese.

Compare it too with the reality of the current age of iron, as described by Don Quixote who says “But now, in tis detestable age of ours, no maiden is safe even though she be hidden in the centre of another Cretan labyrinth; for even there, through some chink or through the air, by dint of its accursed persistence, the plague of love gets in and brings them to the ruin despite their seclusion.” Is Don Quixote’s description of this detestable age any more real than his description of the Golden Age? Whether it is or isn’t, Eon Quixote uses the contrast between the two worlds, past and present, for his own ends. I quote “Therefore, as times rolled on and wickedness increased, the order of knights errant was founded for their protection, to defend maidens, relieve widows, and succour the orphans and the needy.”

We should also mention the illusion of the Don Quixote’s literary pastoral in which “all was peace then, all amity, and all concord” and the reality of the harsh life led by these real goatherds.

Reality and illusion is a common theme as we move from the Renaissance towards the Baroque. For those of us who follow Spanish Art, we have only to look at Velásquez’s paintings to understand the difference between the ugliness of the court dwarves and the beauty of the royalty they entertain. In his painting The Topers, for example, Velásquez shows the reality of the country folk. In Vulcan’s Forge he presents us with the workmen who labour around the furnace contrasting them with the god Apollo who addresses them from within a golden light.

We will meet the pastoral myth on many occasions in Don Quixote I & II, for our adventurer meets with many suffering lovers who escape, or try to escape, their sufferings by fleeing to the countryside to live an idyllic life free from the stress of their supposed multiple love and relationship problems. The pastoral – escapist literary, it is, describing a perfect world that never existed. A suitable follow-up to Past Glories Restored #10 in this sequence of ours. Can such Edenic innocence ever be re-created in contemporary society, Don Quixote’s or our own? A leading question and one that readers must answer for themselves.

In Wales and in the Welsh language, we have a wonderful word to describe that longing for the Golden Age that is long past and unrecoverable. Hiraeth – a spiritual longing for a home that maybe never existed. Nostalgia for ancient places and times to which we can never return. It is the echo of the lost places of our soul’s past and our grief for them and their loss. It is in the wind, the rocks, the bays of the Gower coast, and the waves of the sea. It is nowhere and yet it is ubiquitous.

	rogermoorepoet on Neighbors
	rogermoorepoet on Free Spirit
	lcomtois on Neighbors
	lcomtois on Sun Bird
	lcomtois on Free Spirit