There lived not long since, in a certain village of the Mancha, the name whereof I purposely omit, a gentlemen of their calling that use to pile up in their halls old lances, halberds, morions, and other such armours and weapons. He was, besides, master of an ancient target, a lean stallion, and a swift greyhound. His pot consisted daily of somewhat more beef and mutton: a gallimaufry each night, collops and eggs on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and now and then a lean pigeon on Sundays, did consume three parts of his rents; the rest and remnant thereof was spent on a jerkin of fine puce, a pair of velvet hose, with pantofles of the same for the holy-days, and one suit of the finest vesture; for therewithal he honoured and set out his person on the workdays. He had in his house a woman-servant of about forty years old, and a niece not yet twenty, and a man that served him both in field and at home, and could saddle his horse, and likewise manage a pruning-hook. The master himself was about fifty years old, of a strong complexion, dry flesh, and a withered face. He was an early riser, and a great friend of hunting. Some affirm that his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for in this there is some variance among the authors that write his life), although it may be gathered, by very probable conjectures, that he was called Quixana. Yet all this concerns our historical relation but little: let it then suffice, that in the narration thereof we will not vary a jot from the truth.
Thomas Shelton’s 1620-ish translation of “Don Quixote” has been slumbering in the dining room bookcase for decades. I dust it once in a while. Run its history backwards: from dining room to a shelf out on the Avenues, another shelf in Baltimore, then my teenager’s rooms in Minneapolis and Denver where it competed for space with model cars and hobbyist gizmos. Before then its address was a shipping carton, following a brief warehouse limbo in Garden City, NY. Before 1969 it was ink in a vat and rags in a hopper and leather sheets on a roller. That all arose from the boundless generosity of Mother Earth. As did Thomas Shelton. As did I.
My Shelton “Don Quixote” is one of 24 volumes making up the Harvard Classics Deluxe Edition from P.F. Collier & Sons. My set is the 62nd edition, printed in 1969. It’s a quality product. Collier & Sons didn’t fart around. My Harvard Classics have glided effortlessly down the past 42 years, unruffled save a subtle beige patina to the pages. The bindings still hold fast and the books still smell of good leather. The print is razor-sharp and perfectly composited. I bought my Harvard Classics with a chunk of my earnings as a bag boy at the Applewood King Soopers grocery store on Youngsfield and 32nd Avenue. There’s still a King Soopers at Youngsfield and 32nd, but it’s a new one that dwarfs the one I remember. The value of my Harvard Classics likewise dwarfs the original purchase price. I could sell my set on eBay and buy groceries for months.
“Don Quixote” was my introductory volume so I made every attempt to read it from cover to cover. I had a hell of a hard time. If I need reassurance that I’ve grown intellectually since age 15, I need look no further than the opening paragraph quoted above. It gives me no fits now. Back then I could barely fathom it. All those medieval things: halberds, morions, gallimaufry, collops, jerkin, pantofles. The vocabulary fossils: ‘target’ as a shield, ‘pot’ as food, ‘rents’ as income. Shelton’s old-timey puffiness—rest and remnant thereof, for therewithal, although it may be gathered by very probable conjectures, all this concerns our historical relation but little—added nettles to an already rocky path.
I had a smoother time of it with subsequent volumes. I blasted right through American Historical Documents, Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast, and Dryden’s Plutarch. I sailed to the Galapagos with Darwin on the Beagle. I rummaged through the essayists—Addison, Steele, Thackeray. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress induced terminal boredom before I reached the bottom of Page One. My teen years were my only time for poetry, but it was an intense flirtation: the three volumes of English poetry are the only books to show significant wear. I attempted Burke and failed, but I succeeded with Marlowe and Shakespeare. Butcher & Lang’s prose Odyssey went down fairly smoothly; Dryden’s verse Aeneid did not. Come to think of it, I have never read the entire Aeneid. Maybe I will.
A sunny Thursday morning in 2011. Fragrant green-leather books invoke 1969 and hazy memories of an introverted Denver teenager listening to a Columbia Masterworks LP of Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra on his most prized possession, a cheap RCA stereo record player with detachable speakers covered in red grille cloth. Sprawled comfortably on his bed—the cover was a loud paisley print with brown borders—head propped up on a fuzzy leopardskin-pattern couch pillow—Tchaikovsky Fifth sobbing out of the red speakers—his nose stuck inside his new Harvard Classics Don Quixote as he reads every sentence over and over, hoping that with persistence it will clear up.
He dozes off. A bassy thump from the automatic tonearm rising from the LP wakes him. Turn the record over, push the Start button. Tchaikovsky Fifth resumes. Back to bed and leopardskin pillow and Cervantes. Try again.