From: Cervantes: Bulletin of the Cervantes Society of America
19.1 (1999): 27-39.
Copyright © 1999, The Cervantes Society of America
Dulcinea and Pynchon's V.
iguel de Cervantes Saavedra's
Don Quijote de la Mancha has often inspired and continues to inspire
novelists, poets, painters, and musicians. Indeed, already in Part II, Sancho
Panza himself seems to have glimpsed his book's creative, inspirational power:
“‘Yo apostaré . . . que antes de mucho tiempo,
no ha de haber bodegón, venta ni mesón, o tienda de barbero,
donde no ande pintada la historia de nuestras
hazañas’”1 (1092). Within
its own genre, naturally, Don Quijote's influence has always been
particularly active: as Thomas Hart has written, “Cervantes has served
as a precursor, often a gratefully acknowledged one, for some of the greatest
of later novelists” (3).
It would be small wonder, then, that the fiction
of the contemporary American novelist Thomas Pynchon (n. 1937), the
“creator of the most significant body of fiction in contemporary
America” (Cowart 3), has been linked to Don
Quijote.2 While Pynchon's impressive
Gravity's Rainbow (1973) has been formally compared to Don
Quijote,3 it is rather his first novel,
V. (1963), which revealed the clearest ties to the archetypal Spanish
novel of 1605-1615, at least before
1 All
references in this study to Don Quijote de la Mancha are from the
Editorial Juventud's one-volume edition (Barcelona: 1955).
2 My
“Cervantine Echoes in Early
Pynchon” (Cervantes 8 [1988]:
47-58) may serve as an example.
3 Edward Mendelson,
for instance, has stated that “Gravity's Rainbow is an
encyclopedic narrative, and its companions in this most exclusive
of literary categories are Cervantes' Don
Quixote . . .” (161).
27
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the publication by Henry Holt in April 1997 of the “astonishing and
wonderful” (Menand 23) Mason &
Dixon.4 One of the most perceptive Pynchon
critics, Tony Tanner, has written as follows: “Pynchon's novel
[V.] can be seen as a modern repetition and distortion of what
is the paradigm novel for Western fiction, Don Quixote” (Thomas
Pynchon 42). Tanner, who continues with a reference to the “unusual
but brilliantly handled way” in which the Pynchon characters Stencil
and Profane “echo” Don Quijote and Sancho Panza
(47),5 also remarks that “Stencil's search
for ‘V.’” constitutes “something of a travesty of the
traditional quest” (44). He does not, however, develop a comparison
between Dulcinea, Don Quijote's ideal lady, and the elusive “lady V.”
(V. 41)6; such a comparison will be
the subject of my study. It is my contention that to the Pynchon character
Eigenvalue's question “‘Who then is V.?’,” one
can answer that she is, at least in part, Dulcinea, a Dulcinea recast in
a typically indeterminate postmodernist mode.
Since it is impossible to analyze Dulcinea
apart from her “creator,” Don Quijote, I shall begin by discussing
V.'s principal Don Quijote character, Herbert Stencil (also called
“young Stencil” to distinguish him from his father Sidney, “old
Stencil”); indeed, D. E. Howe considers “the question of Stencil's
identity” more crucial than that of V.'s (170). As noted above, various
critics have duly commented upon quixotic characteristics in Stencil, who
is tall, thin, and about fifty-five years-old. Like Don Quijote and Dulcinea,
Stencil discovers V. in a written text —not, of course, romances of
chivalry, but rather a journal kept by Sidney Stencil, a Foreign Office employee;
apparently referring to the girl Victoria Wren, whom old Stencil had met
in Egypt in 1898, Sidney wrote in Florence the following year: “There
is more behind and inside V. than any of us had suspected. Not who, but what:
what is she” (53). As was the case
4 T.
Coraghessan Boyle, reviewing Mason & Dixon for The New York
Book Review (18 May 1997: 9), begins his review with “Think of the
names linked forever in our collective memory —Quixote and Panza
. . . .” The novel contains many other echoes of Don
Quijote, for instance the following: the narrator Rev. Cherrycoke as
an “untrustworthy Remembrancer” (8), Mason left hanging from a
window in “malicious fun” by a young girl (89), a character's
condemnation of novels on behalf of those “seduced accross the sill
of madness by these irresponsible narratives” (351), and Mason's death
from Melancholy (762).
5 Mackey even
refers to Stencil as “Don Stencil” (25). I myself see little of
Sancho Panza in Profane, except for his physical appearance and his status
as “companion.”
6 My references
to V. are to the 1990 Harper & Row edition.
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with Dulcinea, who Don Quijote at one point admits to Sancho is not a
“real” person but a literary construct (“no todos los poetas
que alaban damas . . . es verdad que las tienen . . .
píntola en mi imaginación como la deseo” [I 249-250]),
young Stencil has never knowingly met nor will he meet during the novel the
historical V., if indeed she ever existed. (The possibility even exists that
she may be his mother.) Instead, he pursues all the V.-signifiers which he
comes across in his father's journal and in other sources: V. as Vera Meroving,
Veronica Manganese, Botticelli's Venus, the mysterious country Vheissu, the
bar The V.-Note, the rat Veronica, etc. Again recalling the bored elderly
hidalgo's “futile obsession” (Close 108) with Dulcinea, Stencil's
quest for V. is a way for him to give structure and meaning to his empty
life: “‘It may be that Stencil has been lonely and needs something
for company,’” Herbert Stencil himself comments (54). (It is
interesting that Stencil always refers to himself in the third person, but
Don Quijote only does that when he is composing his versions of the chronicles
of his exploits to be written by the “sabio encantador.”)
Stencil is a much flatter character than Don
Quijote; he is truly little more than a stencil, a mere tracing of a man.
In fact, Steven Connor's definition of postmodernism could serve as a good
definition of Stencil's essence: “intense and undiminishable
reflexivity” (viii-ix). He, as a tracing, exemplifies what Menard, in
his review of Mason & Dixon, refers to as “the cost of making
sense” (25). Stencil's absurd quest may well cause today's readers to
call to mind the computer addict who spends hour after hour online. Don Quijote,
mad though he be, had solid goals to pursue, the goals of personal honor
and the betterment of society (I 38). Stencil's search for V. is a lifeless
paper-search, an arid attempt to track down information for information's
sake, for the sterile value of tracing connections. He is a genuine
“derealizing” (Jameson 152) postmodern representation. In the novel's
final chapters, he asks Maijstral if “‘Is it really his [Stencil's]
own extermination he's after?’” (451). The last line of the note
Stencil leaves for Paola's father reveals even more clearly his emptiness:
“Dispose as you will of Profane [who is quite ill]. Stencil has no further
need for any of you” (452). When one compares this selfish statement
with what Don Quijote tells Sancho in the climactic “azotamiento”
scene —“‘No permita la suerte, Sancho amigo, que por el gusto
mío pierdas tú la vida . . . . espere Dulcinea
mejor coyuntura’” (II 1091), one realizes that Stencil is a void,
his “undiminishable reflexivity” a reflexivity feeding on an absence
of true selfhood.
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Yet both Cervantes and Pynchon critics have
conceded that their two characters' quests have at least some value for the
questers: “Don Quijote's madness propels him backward into life. It
enables him . . . to engage in purposeful and meaningful
activity” (Johnson 210); Stencil “fears that if his quest were
to be brought to some kind of terminus, he would lose the energy and enthusiasm
he now feels” (Van Delden 120). It is clearly the activity itself that
is important. In fact, the two middle-aged men exhibit what Mackey, making
use of a phrase from V. (55), calls an “approach-avoidance
syndrome” (22) during their search. When Sancho returns with a (fabricated,
of course) message from Dulcinea, asking don Quijote to go to see her, the
knight refuses, mentioning prior obligations (I 320-321); when they arrive
at El Toboso in Part II to visit the “princess,” Don Quijote eagerly
accepts Sancho's suggestion that he [Don Quijote] hide in the woods while
Sancho searches for the noble lady's dwelling (624). For his part, Stencil
keeps putting off going to Malta, near which his father drowned and where
the mystery of V. could possibly be resolved. When he finally does reach
Malta, he soon dashes off to Sweden, pursuing a “much weaker clue, escaping
that moment of ultimate despair, when we realize that we have . . .
achieved nothing” (New 101), the moment of profound
desengaño which Don Quijote experiences after the disastrous
adventure of the enchanted boat: “‘Yo no puedo más’”
(II 786).
Early in the novel, Stencil realizes that he
dare not find V.: “Finding her: what then? Only that what love there
was to Stencil had become directed entirely inward. . . .
To sustain it he had to hunt for V.; but if he should find her, where else
would there be to go but back into half-consciousness?” (55). As does
Don Quijote with respect to romantic love for real women, Stencil suffers
from the “inability to love anyone outside [his] own fantasy
projections” (Tanner, “V.” 28) When Don Quijote regains
his sanity and relinquishes his quest at the novel's close, he has fallen
ill of a fever brought on by “melancolías y desabrimientos”
(II 1105) —deep depression (indeed, Kristeva considers “intolerance
of object loss” a principal characteristic of melancholia [10]).
Of course, Dulcinea and V. are not only disembodied
fantasy women. Don Quijote mentally transformed the pretty (“de muy
buen parecer” [I 41]) peasant girl Aldonza Lorenzo into his “sin
par” Dulcinea, using the heroines of the books of chivalry as his models.
In the canonical text, Dulcinea takes on four corporal forms: Aldonza, the
crude peasant wench who Sancho insists is Dulcinea
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under enchantment,7 the young page who
impersonates Dulcinea during the forest pageant arranged by the Duke and
Duchess, and —in the novel's penultimate chapter— the
hare8 chased by hunters which Don Quijote
identifies with Dulcinea. V. also takes on various corporal forms: the English
girl Victoria, the sadistic Vera Meroving of the decadent South African siege
party, the “lady V.” who is the sterile lover of Mélanie
in Paris, the Veronica Manganese whom old Stencil encountered in Malta shortly
before his (accidental?) death, and the sewers-dwelling rat Veronica
“converted” by the mad Jesuit Father Fairing. V.'s final manifestation
as the Bad Priest will receive special attention later in this essay.
A good part of the humor surrounding Don Quijote's
fair Dulcinea is the contrast between the frail, lovely maiden of the elderly
knight's courtly dreams and the husky, coarse, boyish peasant girl whom he
transforms into Dulcinea. When Sancho first learns that Aldonza is the
“real” Dulcinea, he exclaims: “‘es moza de chapa, hecha
y derecha y de pelo en pecho. . . . ¡Oh hideputa,
qué rejo que tiene, y qué voz!” (I 248). From then on,
the reader is always aware of the ridiculous disparity between Aldonza and
Dulcinea; as Close has observed, “a grotesque vein of comedy envelops
the theme of Dulcinea . . .” (89). This “grotesque
vein” culminates in the much-analyzed “Cueva de Montesinos”
dream sequence, in which Don Quijote encounters Sancho's peasant Dulcinea
“saltando y brincando como cabra” and incongruously sending one
of her ladies to ask for a loan of six reales, with a cotton petticoat
as surety for the loan (II 738). Don Quijote does not have the full amount
to give her, which is a considerable blow to his male psyche; as Johnson
puts it, “If Don Quixote's all is not enough, then Dulcinea comes
apart” (159).
The possible bodily death of V. —her literal
“coming apart”— occurs in Chapter Eleven: “Confessions
of Fausto Maijstral.” Maijstral, a Maltese writer with whom we have
noted that Stencil finally connects, wrote his Confessions for his daughter,
Paola, who may be V.'s heiress. (Once again, I shall return to Paola later.)
Maijstral relates how V., now disguised as the “Bad Priest” and
preaching the
7 It is
interesting that only one of the numerous Lladró figurines which portray
Don Quijote and Sancho includes a “Dulcinea”: it is Number 5341,
“I've Found Thee, Dulcinea,” which shows Don Quijote kneeling before
Sancho's peasant Dulcinea (247), not the ideal lady.
8 Pynchon also
compares V. to a hunted hare: “V. ambiguously a beast of venery, chased
like the hart, hind or hare” (61).
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doctrine of the inanimate, is dismantled by a group of Maltese children during
a Second World War bombing of Valletta. The scene has marked similarities
to the Montesinos episode. Like Don Quijote, Maijstral descends to the encounter
with V. in a dazed state (“lurched down a slope of debris” in “a
blank space” (341). Feeling “like a spy” (Don Quijote is basically
an observer in the cave episode), he watches the children take apart the
figure of the Bad Priest. “‘She comes apart,’” one of
the children shouts, as they detach her artificial foot, her false teeth,
and glass eye. The former seminarian Maijstral feels impotent to stop what
is happening, but he finally reacts enough to give the dying woman Extreme
Unction; he will be forever haunted by his inability to put a stop to the
dismantling: “‘I wake. . . . and am no farther from
nightmare’” (341). Don Quijote, also, will continue to be haunted
by his visions in the cave.
Obviously, it is Fausto Maijstral, not Herbert
Stencil, whom one identifies with Don Quijote in the above episode. Maijstral
is not the only Don Quijote doubling in V., however; several other
characters have ties with the Spanish knight. These characters include the
elderly Signor Mantissa, who is infatuated with Botticelli's famous painting
of Venus rising from the sea. On the verge of stealing it from the Uffizi
(with the help of his cohort the Gaucho), he suddenly recoils from the emptiness
behind the painting's flat surface: “‘A gaudy dream, a dream of
annihilation,’” says the Gaucho (21). The elderly explorer Godolphin,
who had met Victoria herself earlier, is obsessed with the (real? unreal?)
country Vheissu and its unearthly changing colors; he too concludes that
“‘It was Nothing that I saw’” (204), but he cannot keep
himself from “living in the past” (241). Herbert's father Sidney
shares his son's obsession with V.; he also prefers to live in the past,
so much so that when he meets V. in Malta, he automatically connects
“meeting V. with dying” (386). These Quijote doublings call to
mind the various doublings that have been noted between Don Quijote and several
other characters. Cardenio, like Don Quijote, is a courtly madman; Anselmo
of “El curioso impertinente,” dies of melancholy after he has become
“desengañado” of his mad obsession with his wife Camila's
purity; 9 Don Diego de Miranda may be a bourgeois
Don Quijote, what the knight could have been if he had not gone mad.
V. is a young man's novel, cerebral but
9 The
young engineer Mondaugen, trying to protect his friend the elderly Godolphin
from V. in South Africa, sings to him as follows: “‘Dreams will
keep you safe and strong,’” but “‘should the Angel come
this night,’” then “‘Dreams will help you not at
all’” (254).
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extremely funny; none of its basically static characters have anywhere near
the depth and complexity of the mature Cervantes's characters. Yet the
above-named male V. characters constantly bring Don Quijote to mind,
although Stencil and company, who are completely self-fixated, reveal none
of Don Quijote's altruistic desires to make the world a better place in which
to live and dream. Stencil, in the final analysis, is a reduced Don
Quijote, essentially “He Who Looks for V.” (226). This reductionism
in itself reinforces one of V.'s principal themes, the entropic process
of dehumanization, a major theme in the fiction of Thomas Pynchon.
Dulcinea and V. are markedly
ambiguous/indeterminate characters. (This form of characterization continues
in Mason & Dixon's presentation of Mason's wife, “the many-Lens'd
Rebekah” [195].) Both Dulcinea and V. are constantly present in the
minds of their questers; both are elusive, ever-changing —which may
perhaps contribute to what Charlotte Stern considers the tendency of
“Cervantine critics . . . to shy away from Dulcinea”
(61). Don Quijote criticism, with its broad divisions into
“hard” [comic, realistic] and “soft” [romantic, idealistic]
interpretations, has presented two very different Dulcineas: the ideal Dulcinea
as the supreme courtly model competes with Dulcinea harshly viewed as a
“physical nothing” (Efron 67), whose pursuit prevents Don Quijote
from facing up to the real world. Keeping in mind both Girard's profound
observation that “Nothing is further from [Cervantes] than the ‘right
and wrong,’ Manichean concept of the novel” (96-97), as well as
the postmodernist tendency to deconstruct binary oppositions, I shall continue
in this final section with analysis of the two heroines.
Dulcinea, as a comic version of the courtly
lover's unattainable lady —what Terpening calls “an anti-donna
angelicata” (4)—, exists in distant splendor only in Don Quijote's
overheated imagination. She exists, because it is necessary for a knight
to have a lady (according to Hegel, “the necessity of a concept is the
principal thing; and the process of its production as a result is its proof
and deduction” [Philosophy of Right, Introduction 2, p. 9]).
Yet Don Quijote finally gets around to giving her a name only after
he has decided upon names for himself and for his horse: “no le faltaba
otra cosa sino buscar una dama de quien enamorarse” (I 40). When asked
by the Duchess to describe Dulcinea, he admits that she may well be an imaginary
creation: “‘Dios sabe si hay Dulcinea o no en el mundo, o si es
fantástica, o no es fantástica” (II 809). She is for him
what Brody has called the courtly lover's “struggle to preserve the
ideal from destruction” (221). Cervantes, strongly influenced by Renaissance
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Neoplatonism as Castro and others have demonstrated, would never make fun
of beauty and purity per se, but he was too much of a realist
not to make fun of his lovable madman's inability to live in the actual
world. Thus, the comic distortion of Dulcinea, which culminates with Don
Quijote's fear that the hunted hare is Dulcinea. The pure, untouchable maiden
of the courtly love tradition has been dehumanized into the shape of a
“lunar” animal, symbol of “fertility and passionate
sexuality” (Biedermann 165) —although E. C. Riley has pointed out
that “the hare could also symbolise chastity” (“Symbolism”
166). Dulcinea, a creature of Don Quijote's “automaton thinking”
(Efron 64) is handed over by Don Quijote to the hunters, like V. finally
a victim of what Efron calls her rôle as “dealer of death”
(ibid.). Alonso Quijano will die without a thought for Dulcinea, after the
now sane hidalgo has become aware —somewhat like Signor Mantissa—
of the emptiness of the courtly ideal for which she stands. Botticelli's
Venus remains a glorious human creation, however, and Dulcinea too has an
imperishable beauty, as long as one realizes that she is also a human construct,
a work of art.
V., on the other hand, is certainly not a symbol
of eternal beauty and purity. Yet a critic has described her as
“sacred,” “the Paraclete” (Llamon 81). At one point in
the American text, the narrator comments that it “was as if she [Victoria]
saw herself embodying a feminine principle” (209); a few pages later,
a V.-double Hedwig Vogelsang (whose name has courtly love resonances) remarks
that “‘[her] purpose is to tantalize and send raving the race of
man’” (239). As was Dulcinea, V. can be seen as a “death
force” (Newman 34), as an “embodiment of inanimateness” (Llamon
80). Tanner may have stated it best: “V. is whatever lights you to the
end of the street: she is also the dark annihilation waiting at the
end of the street” (“V.” 36). For me, an essential
aspect of V. may be her relation to Paola Maijstral, Fausto's beautiful
daughter.
Paola M. (an anagram of paloma, the
Spanish word for “dove”), is also a Paraclete figure. According
to Mackey, she is “the inheritor of the positive aspects of V.'s mythic
role” (13); for Newman, Paola is “a figure of possible salvation”
(41). Paola flits in and out of the novel, finally returning with Stencil
and Profane to her native Malta, where she is reunited with her American
seaman husband, to whom she gives a prized possession, a comb made of the
ivory carving of the bodies of five crucified British soldiers. This comb
had once belonged to Victoria Wren. It is possible, then, that Paola was
one of the children who disassembled the Bad Priest. When the children pry
out the sapphire from the dying woman's navel, it is easy to recall
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Bakhtin's “carnavalistic image of pregnant death” (126), as V./Paola
fuse into “pared images” of “birth and death” (ibid.).
Early in the novel, while disguised as the black prostitute Rudy, Paola comments
that “Maybe you have to be crazy to love somebody” (293). The
Dulcinea/V. characters, contaminated though they be by humankind's apparently
inborn viruses of cruelty and destruction, yet awaken in those who seek them
the enduring stimulation of creative desire.
To conclude, Dulcinea and V., of course, are
products of very different centuries. Writing in the transition period from
the Renaissance to the Baroque, and casting Dulcinea as the supreme embodiment
of Don Quijote's chivalric dreams, Cervantes has created a fascinating figure
who is the end result of courtly love and Neoplatonist traditions —as
well as a parodic reminder of the anachronistic nature of those traditions.
The gorgeous green-eyed blonde, physical heir to Melibea, of Don Quijote's
fantasy is also a coarse peasant woman of doubtful morality. As Riley has
astutely pointed out, Dulcinea's “connection with money is maintained
to the end” (Don Quixote 140) through the cave passage, Sancho's
paid lashes, and finally the cricket-cage. Dulcinea, like the Orianas and
Laureolas of the books of chivalry and the sentimental novels, belongs to
the past; Don Diego de Miranda, the bourgeois country gentleman, is
more “modern” than Don Quijote. Yet people cherish the ideal in
all periods. Thus Dulcinea is very real for Don Quijote, and for the reader,
even though we all acknowledge her ethereal nature.
V., on the other hand, is a product of the
postmodernist milieu. (But are the two periods so different? According to
Ferreras, Cervantes “escribe o recrea un universo donde el desorden,
y también el crimen y la sangre, destruyen toda armonía, toda
comunión en un solo ideal”
[23].)10 While I emphatically agree with
Riley that “any detached and overall view of Dulcinea must combine the
very disparate images of her presented by Don Quijote, Sancho, other characters
and the narrator” (“Symbolism” 73), these images do tend to
conform to either the “ideal” Dulcinea or the
“anti-Dulcinea.” In one sense, this is also true of V., “The
V composing and forestalling the vide” (Redfield 159). The
over-abundance of V.-signifiers in Pynchon's novel, however, corresponds
well to postmodernism's
10 Given
Pynchon's career-long preoccupation with entropy, it is most significant
that Ferreras associates the famous passage “Como las cosas humanas
no sean eternas, yendo siempre en declinación de sus principios hasta
llegar a su último fin . . .” (II 1104) with
“uno de los principios o leyes de la Termodinámica: la
entropía” (56).
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“commitment to indeterminancy, openness and multiplicity” (Connor
16), its “denying dichotomies, bipolarities, . . . dissolving
binary oppositions” (Mellencamp
98).11 V. is more definitely a what
(“‘what: what is she?’” [53]) than a who.
Perhaps, like Stencil, she is essentially a lack, a lack of order: “Pynchon
does not . . . offer us Order, and in that he reflects the
postmodernist outlook” (Hume 192). This is for me the greatest difference
between his worldview and that of Cervantes. Even with the marked sense of
desengaño and sadness found in much of Don Quijote,
particularly in Part II, Cervantes always conveys to the reader some sense
of order, even though it be a Baroque “orden desordenada” (I 519).
Alonso Quijano on his deathbed may repudiate “los detestables libros
de las caballerías” and their “disparates” and
“embelecos” (foremost among them the overly-idealized Dulcinea)
(II 1105), but he dies comforted by the supreme Order of grace, “‘las
misericordias . . . que en este instante ha usado Dios
conmigo’” (ibid.). Alonso Quijano dies sane, with “juicio
. . . libre y claro, sin las sombras caliginosas de la
ignorancia” caused by too much reading of the books of chivalry; his
mind regains its order. In marked contrast, the final chapter of V.
is a flashback to the death at sea of old Stencil, a death caused by a blind
natural disorder, a gigantic waterspout (492): “Veronica Manganese
had kept him only as long as she had to” (492). This is the reader's
final glimpse of V., as she turns old Stencil over to disorder and death.
According to Van Delden, “the problem
of how and where to find a principle of order in the modern world” is
central to V. (118). The problem is unresolved at the novel's close.
In comparison with the tremendous positive development of Sancho Panza, Stencil's
luckless companion Benny Profane ends the novel much as he started out. Asked
by the girl Brenda in Malta, “‘Haven't you learned?,’”
Profane answers simply, “‘I haven't learned a goddam
thing’” (454). This sense of emptiness and futility is the essence
of the “lady V.” Dulcinea, even when viewed as a comic or threatening
figure, never conveys such a negative impression. Enough of the ideal forever
clings to her, to soften and to dulcify her image.
| LOYOLA UNIVERSITY
CHICAGO |
11
Postmodernism, naturally, is a complex concept, of which different theorists
hold differing views. As an example, Terry Eagleton has written that
“postmodern theory often operates with quite rigid binary oppositions”
(25).
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Biedermann, Hans. Dictionary of Symbols. Trans. James Hulbert. New
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Boyle, T. Coraghessan. “The Great Divide.” The New York Times
Book Review, 18 May 1997: 9.
Brody, Saul N. “The Comic Rejection of Courtly Love.” In Pursuit
of Perfection: Courtly Love in Medieval Literature. Ed. Joan Ferrante
and George D. Economou. Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1975. 221-261.
Castro, Américo. El pensamiento de Cervantes. Barcelona-Madrid:
Editorial Juventud, 1955.
Cervantes de Saavedra, Miguel. Don Quijote de la Mancha. Barcelona:
Editorial Juventud, 1955.
Close, A. J. Don Quixote. Cambridge UP, 1990.
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