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booksandbread_ 's review for:
Don Quixote
by Miguel de Cervantes
adventurous
challenging
emotional
funny
lighthearted
sad
slow-paced
I did it.
I read Don Quixote.
The whole damn thing!
I turned the final page of Edith Grossman’s translation, her elegant, faithful, and at times torturous work, and closed the book with something between a sigh and a bow.
1,000+ pages of madness, illusion, satire, repetition, genius, and heartbreak.
Let’s be honest: I didn’t love it.
But I deeply respect it.
This is the book that changed the shape of literature. The first modern novel.
And you can feel it in the scaffolding, the structure, the way Cervantes plays not just with characters, but with you.
There were times I felt like a character in the book myself, watching Quixote tilt at windmills while wondering whether I, too, had lost the plot.
If you like Monty Python humor, you might love it.
(I don’t, and I didn’t.)
But beneath the absurdity lies a tender, devastating core.
The thing is Don Quixote is all of us.
He believes in something the world no longer honors. He holds on, long past reason.
And when the world laughs, mocks, humiliates, and finally breaks him, what remains is something quiet and tragic and achingly human.
And Sancho?
The sidekick who becomes the soul of the novel?
He’s the one who reminds us how to stay grounded even as the dream collapses.
It’s long.
It’s uneven.
It’s brilliant.
It’s a slog.
It’s a mirror.
And I’ll never forget it.
I read Don Quixote.
The whole damn thing!
I turned the final page of Edith Grossman’s translation, her elegant, faithful, and at times torturous work, and closed the book with something between a sigh and a bow.
1,000+ pages of madness, illusion, satire, repetition, genius, and heartbreak.
Let’s be honest: I didn’t love it.
But I deeply respect it.
This is the book that changed the shape of literature. The first modern novel.
And you can feel it in the scaffolding, the structure, the way Cervantes plays not just with characters, but with you.
There were times I felt like a character in the book myself, watching Quixote tilt at windmills while wondering whether I, too, had lost the plot.
If you like Monty Python humor, you might love it.
(I don’t, and I didn’t.)
But beneath the absurdity lies a tender, devastating core.
The thing is Don Quixote is all of us.
He believes in something the world no longer honors. He holds on, long past reason.
And when the world laughs, mocks, humiliates, and finally breaks him, what remains is something quiet and tragic and achingly human.
And Sancho?
The sidekick who becomes the soul of the novel?
He’s the one who reminds us how to stay grounded even as the dream collapses.
It’s long.
It’s uneven.
It’s brilliant.
It’s a slog.
It’s a mirror.
And I’ll never forget it.