posted April 25, 2013 11:50 AM
It is the nature of all works, and of great works especially, to lend themselves to manifold interpretations, not all intended by their creators. The more subtle and poetic (which is to say, symbolic) a work is, the more pronounced this tendency becomes. No doubt, this is partly the reason for the work's abiding value; that it reflects the innermost recesses of the soul which views it. As the saying goes, "A book is like a mirror: if an ass peers into it, you cannot expect a saint to look out." The one who perceives, and the quality of his or her perception, is at least as important as the quality of the object perceived. Indeed, the two can only be distinguished by a comparison of the various perceptions which people have of them; since, the object remains as it is, while the perceptions differ, often widely; and even to the point of utter contradiction.Cervantes' "Don Quixote" is one such work.
On the surface, and according to universal acknowledgement, it is the story of a man of the noblest aspirations and the scantest means. Despite his humble circumstances, he has cultivated, all his life, a tremendous ambition to become a certain ideal type of hero -- the knight errant, who rides a mighty steed, his armor glinting like a thousand suns in the light of the one, en route to right whatever wrongs he chances to encounter; to slay mammoth beasts, to bring crooked men to justice, to set fair maidens at liberty; in short, to do everything a heroic knight is said in legends to have done. Even after a long life of disappointing confrontations with harsh reality, he is not yet disillusioned, not yet discouraged from chasing his wild fantasy. Rather, his imagination gets the better of reality and, having lost his wits, but not his dream, he sets out, poor and decrepit, yet believing himself smartly armored and armed, to do battle with the forces of evil under the banner of all that is good.
Like its protagonist, the book is both tragic and comic, as the ridiculousness of Quixote's pretensions is off-set by the admiration one cannot help feeling towards his indefatigable high-mindedness. His repeated failures, while laughable, also evoke a sadness, and a strong desire to see him, just once, triumph, and be lauded as the hero he so longs to be. At last, we are brought to consider the nobility of his spirit, which is the spirit of a true hero, regardless of the fact that he is, in all other respects, ill-equipped to enact the visions of his noble fancy. Quixote may be foolish, but he is no fool. His madness is more to be envied than the pragmatism of so many sane and reasonable fools, who have nothing of the hero in them; not even the ambition for heroism, nor the admiration properly owed to it, -- both of which he has in spades.
While various readers have suggested various interpretations beyond the obvious, I cannot help but see the story of Don Quixote as a parable of the Christian life. Cervantes grew up surrounded, not merely with tales regaling the exploits of conventional heroes and men of action, but of monks, martyrs, and priests, as well. Perhaps it is only myself I read, but the book strikes me as one long critique and defense of Christendom, and of the simple people whose admiration for the saints took little notice of their own ill-fittedness for sainthood.
How often do we see people, encouraged by religious fervor, endeavoring to promote and display virtues which they have not, and which may be well beyond their mortal grasp? How common is it, to see them blind, or practically blind, to their own shortcomings, yet, nonetheless, boldly expectant of some miraculous grace which might take possession of them and, by no real power of their own, transform them utterly into the figures of dignity and compassion whom they tirelessly adore?
Everywhere, we see them, loaded up with pretensions, anxious to emulate character traits which are as far beyond them as white clouds above the muddy earth. They are ridiculous, but they are tragic, as well. If we only knew them half as well as we come to know Quixote by the end of that novel, our laughter and pity would subside into a quiet admiration, -- even envy, for the majesty of their dream. Like Cervantes' title character, they are possessed by so much more than they possess. Their madness is more sane than the complacency of so many others, no more nor less mediocre than themselves in substance, but lacking that divine spark of imagination and idealism which transfigures even the humblest soul.
In the final analysis, we may be moved to accord them that measure of grace which, by all appearances, continues to elude them. We may conclude that they are, indeed, blessed, and that, if they have nothing else to show for themselves, they have grace. Of course, not the grace which transfigures a man utterly, right down to his behavior and appearance, but, at least, the subtler grace which clothes his soul in fine imaginings, and refuses to submit to the grossest evidence of sense.
These are the dear souls who take heart at the words of Themistocles, who wrote that, "The wildest colts make the best horses, if they only get properly broken in and trained," though there are no great influences surrounding them, to break and train them. However often their passions and tempers get the better of them, their spirits perk up, when they discover this passage from Nietzsche's Zarathustra: “Of all evil I deem you capable: Therefore I want good from you. Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws.” And lastly, but by no means least of all, they are stopped in their tracks by the declaration of Saint Paul, that giant among saints, when he writes, "I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God... I labored more abundantly than they all..."
Faith compels them. Grace will come, they cannot doubt. A thousand times they fall flat on their pious faces, but a thousand and one times they stand up tall, and reaffirm their conviction, in spite of all. Grace will come. At last, it seems to me, their grace has come, albeit in some unexpected and seldom recognized form. Grace does not yet lift them to the heavens, but it lifts them from the dirt. It does not lift them bodily, but it lifts their spirits. It is that in them which refuses to submit, not because ground has been visibly gained, but because it has not been lost. Though the saints may have never once been emulated, the flame of love for them has not gone out, but has even grown stronger, and -- who knows -- may even yet transfigure the flesh.
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Vision without action is a dream.
Action without vision is a nightmare.
~ Japanese Proverb
Lindaland
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posted April 25, 2013 11:50 AM
posted April 27, 2013 12:14 AM
BASTILLE // Overjoyed (A Capella) [3:13] 