On Don Quixote as knight errant

This man thinks he’s a knight errant out wandering in the world, righting wrongs, protecting damsels, slaying dragons, and dying for the love of his lady, and that is exactly what he attempts to do. The problem, though, is complex because he is a living anachronism, a knight in a time when knights no longer exist if they ever existed at all. The problem of the mere existence of Don Quixote is aggravated by the fact that all of Quixote’s information about how knights act has been gleaned from a series of fiction novels about knights and their adventures. The crusades have been over for centuries, and the figure of the knight has been rendered irrelevant by the invention of gun powder, lead shot, and the blunderbuss. By the time Cervantes writes about the ingenious hidalgo, the era of knight errantry has been over by more than a century. Most of Spain’s military is now pursuing new aventures in the new world, and central Spain, La Mancha, specifically, has become a social backwater where the locals raise grapes, wheat, and olives, and not much else. Whether don Quixote has read too many old adventure novels and gone crazy, or if something else is motivating his actions may be irrelevant. What is important are his actions while he purposefully reorganizes his identity, rebuilds his armor, changes his name, and sallies out on a new adventure, knowing full-well that there are no knights anymore. He is older, in his fifties, perhaps has a little too much free time, has no clear career or life objectives, and is clearly suffering from a mid-life existential crisis–if he doesn’t do something now, he never will. Instead of being young and virile, tough and toned, he’s skinny, got poor muscle tone, and is running on good intentions only. The question though is exactly that: are good intentions enough in the rough and tumble world of 1605, the cusp of modernity, the kryptonite of the knight errant.

On Don Quixote as knight errant

This man thinks he’s a knight errant out wandering in the world, righting wrongs, protecting damsels, slaying dragons, and dying for the love of his lady, and that is exactly what he attempts to do. The problem, though, is complex because he is a living anachronism, a knight in a time when knights no longer exist if they ever existed at all. The problem of the mere existence of Don Quixote is aggravated by the fact that all of Quixote’s information about how knights act has been gleaned from a series of fiction novels about knights and their adventures. The crusades have been over for centuries, and the figure of the knight has been rendered irrelevant by the invention of gun powder, lead shot, and the blunderbuss. By the time Cervantes writes about the ingenious hidalgo, the era of knight errantry has been over by more than a century. Most of Spain’s military is now pursuing new aventures in the new world, and central Spain, La Mancha, specifically, has become a social backwater where the locals raise grapes, wheat, and olives, and not much else. Whether don Quixote has read too many old adventure novels and gone crazy, or if something else is motivating his actions may be irrelevant. What is important are his actions while he purposefully reorganizes his identity, rebuilds his armor, changes his name, and sallies out on a new adventure, knowing full-well that there are no knights anymore. He is older, in his fifties, perhaps has a little too much free time, has no clear career or life objectives, and is clearly suffering from a mid-life existential crisis–if he doesn’t do something now, he never will. Instead of being young and virile, tough and toned, he’s skinny, got poor muscle tone, and is running on good intentions only. The question though is exactly that: are good intentions enough in the rough and tumble world of 1605, the cusp of modernity, the kryptonite of the knight errant.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On unpacking my library

Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On unpacking my library

Dedicated to the memory of Walter Benjamin. I moved from one office to another last week, which means I had to take down all my books, put them on carts, and unpack them in my new office. A simple enough task, but handling each book, picking a new location for it, tugs at the heartstrings and stirs old ideas from hibernation. You see, no one remembers all of the books that they have. This particular copy of “1984” was left on my desk in chemistry by someone–never knew who–in the spring of ’76. They had written my name it. My copy of “Ghost Story” came from the English book section of Casa de Libro in Madrid in 1979. Over the course of even a few years, one forgets individual volumes that were acquired in odd ways in dark, smelly, book shops off of equally dark and smelly streets deep inside a grimy urban setting. A copy of Borges’ short stories was a birthday gift from a beloved friend and still bears her dedication. I found a copy of Dante’s “Inferno” which was inscribed “To Helen, completely unforgettable, London, 1961.” I had completely forgotten several titles which I had never gotten around to reading, but I was warmly surprised to see old friends that I had indeed read, albeit decades ago. Having an analogue library, though quite superfluous today, appeals to my medieval sensibility of scribe. The physical presence of the books reminds me of how much there is to think about just being human. Flipping through familiar pages, reading familiar passages, gazing on forgotten book covers, I am often reminded of other periods, other times in my life when I lived in other towns and knew other people. My worries and concerns were different when I first read “Don Quixote” or “The Name of the Rose.” While I was unpacking I was assailed by both nostalgia and pathos, remembering a warm rainy afternoon in Madrid when I found that one book about Cervantes that I always wanted to read. Or perhaps it was a copy of “Cien años de soledad” that I found abandoned in a train station in Toledo (Spain). Some books had been gifts, and others had been borrowed by me, but never returned. I found an old, beat-up paperback of “Dr. Zhivago” that I bought for fifty pesetas from an outdoor vendor in the plaza of Alonso Martínez, which I read during the winter of ´84′-’85, one of the coldest winters in Madrid’s history. My copy of Shakespearean sonnets which was bought for less than a dollar out of a remainders bin at a mall in Mankato, Minnesota over thirty years ago which still bears my innocent marginalia of my youth. I had to throw away, with much regret, several books with broken spines and molding pages. At one time this would have horrified me, but these works are easily recovered given the digital nature of the internet. I noticed that I now have two copies of “The Lord of the Flies,” but that I still haven’t read it after all these years–I suspect I know what it’s about and don’t want to stare at the horror of humanity unleashed. I have dropped an ancient copy of “Beowulf” on my desk–a discard from my high school library. I first read this book when I was fifteen, so it will be a new read for me when I pick it up later this week. I will donate three boxes of books to the local library sale to make way for new titles because space is always finite for a book lover.

On cathedrals

It’s not that I’m an expert in Gothic cathedrals, but I do know my way around all that stone and stained-glass. I don’t have a favorite, but I like Salamanca a great deal. León has the best stained glass. Segovia is such a late Gothic that it isn’t really Gothic at all. Burgos is total class, and Seville is monumental. There is little question that all of that carved stone heaped up in such a way as to create a sort of enormous stone cave is impressive. The vaults, the aisles, the alters, the choirs, the organs, the chapels all add up to an impressively chaotic and fractured version of reality. The cathedrals raise their stone arms up to heaven in a imposing array of arches, vaults, columns, and flying buttresses. This is supposed to be a big house, God’s house. The Gothic cathedral is built with an underlying theme–the pointed arch, which is used thematically throughout the entire building. What is difficult, at times, to stomach are the multiple layers of decoration which have been hung on the inside of the cathedral like so much ugly makeup. Cathedrals are really about lines of force, the harnassing of stresses, gravity, wind, and curves, and how all of those intersecting lines add up to a massive pile of stone. In the end, the cathedral is not the natural or logical outcome of the building process. Form and function are at odds with each other from the initial corner stone to the final key stone, and the laws of physics will be trying to pull down that stone roof even before it is put into place. The Gothic cathedral is a metaphor, then, for the struggle between man and stone to create an anti-natural structure based on the creative genius of man and his imagination to challenge those same laws of physics that are used to make those stone arches stay in place. Cathedrals are a living paradox of contrasting laws of nature where man has choosen to put his alters and proclaim his faith. I could do without most of the Baroque, Roccoco, or Neo-classic decoration and just roam the unadorned aisles as bovedas and arches sore above my head, knowing full-well that the columns and buttresses are all working overtime to keep the stones off of my head. Elaborate interior decorations do not speak to either my faith in God or my faith in man. Regular blocking, clean curved arches, and colorful rose windows tell me more about the art and skill of the tradesmen that built the place than the awful aesthetics of those who determined what would go into them at some later date, centuries after the builders had left. Today these stone monstrosities are a tribute to persistence and craftsmanship that is both forgotten and unappreciated. Unfortunately, many of the Gothic cathedrals of Europe are now located in regional backwaters that have long ago lost their importance as centers of power or eclessiastical greatness, and local parishes struggle to keep the lights on and the stone roofs from caving in. Cathedrals, at least to some extent, are anachronistic dinosaurs leftover from a time when building a big building was a big deal that not just anyone could do. Today, the Gothic cathedral is dwarfed by massive sports arenas, megalithic sky-scrapers, and gravity defying bridges that the medieval stone mason might have dreamed about, but never built.

On cathedrals

It’s not that I’m an expert in Gothic cathedrals, but I do know my way around all that stone and stained-glass. I don’t have a favorite, but I like Salamanca a great deal. León has the best stained glass. Segovia is such a late Gothic that it isn’t really Gothic at all. Burgos is total class, and Seville is monumental. There is little question that all of that carved stone heaped up in such a way as to create a sort of enormous stone cave is impressive. The vaults, the aisles, the alters, the choirs, the organs, the chapels all add up to an impressively chaotic and fractured version of reality. The cathedrals raise their stone arms up to heaven in a imposing array of arches, vaults, columns, and flying buttresses. This is supposed to be a big house, God’s house. The Gothic cathedral is built with an underlying theme–the pointed arch, which is used thematically throughout the entire building. What is difficult, at times, to stomach are the multiple layers of decoration which have been hung on the inside of the cathedral like so much ugly makeup. Cathedrals are really about lines of force, the harnassing of stresses, gravity, wind, and curves, and how all of those intersecting lines add up to a massive pile of stone. In the end, the cathedral is not the natural or logical outcome of the building process. Form and function are at odds with each other from the initial corner stone to the final key stone, and the laws of physics will be trying to pull down that stone roof even before it is put into place. The Gothic cathedral is a metaphor, then, for the struggle between man and stone to create an anti-natural structure based on the creative genius of man and his imagination to challenge those same laws of physics that are used to make those stone arches stay in place. Cathedrals are a living paradox of contrasting laws of nature where man has choosen to put his alters and proclaim his faith. I could do without most of the Baroque, Roccoco, or Neo-classic decoration and just roam the unadorned aisles as bovedas and arches sore above my head, knowing full-well that the columns and buttresses are all working overtime to keep the stones off of my head. Elaborate interior decorations do not speak to either my faith in God or my faith in man. Regular blocking, clean curved arches, and colorful rose windows tell me more about the art and skill of the tradesmen that built the place than the awful aesthetics of those who determined what would go into them at some later date, centuries after the builders had left. Today these stone monstrosities are a tribute to persistence and craftsmanship that is both forgotten and unappreciated. Unfortunately, many of the Gothic cathedrals of Europe are now located in regional backwaters that have long ago lost their importance as centers of power or eclessiastical greatness, and local parishes struggle to keep the lights on and the stone roofs from caving in. Cathedrals, at least to some extent, are anachronistic dinosaurs leftover from a time when building a big building was a big deal that not just anyone could do. Today, the Gothic cathedral is dwarfed by massive sports arenas, megalithic sky-scrapers, and gravity defying bridges that the medieval stone mason might have dreamed about, but never built.

On alchemy

I have always thought that most people do not understand alchemy at all, and they think that this ancient science is about changing lead into gold. Other than an interesting smoke screen for those who might stick their noses in where they don’t belong, alchemy has never been about changing anything except for the way we might think about things. It’s just easier to tell those who would concern themselves with material things that alchemists are trying to change one element into another–magic, in other words. All alchemists know, however, that the world is how it is, unchangeable, and that lead has its purpose too, unalterable from the beginning of time–common sense, not magic. There are those people, however, with little imagination and no ability for critical thinking, who think that magic will give them a little extra help, an advantage, so to speak, and put a little extra money and wealth into their pockets. Alchemy never has had anything to do with wealth or possessions or materialistic pursuits. Most alchemists, true alchemists, will probably never even admit to being an alchemist at all. What alchemists do, or did, was to work to understand the nature of the world and the things in it. Alchemists have known since the beginning of time that gold is what it is, but that gold never answered anyone’s questions about the nature of existence, never bought or restored happiness, ruined more than one life that sought to worship it. It isn’t that gold isn’t useful, but it can’t be an end in and of itself. You will never have enough no matter what you might think. If you carry just a token piece of gold, it will always suffice to remind you that the unhealthy pursuit of gold only leads to ruin. Whatever alchemy might be, it has nothing to do with gold. Perhaps alchemy is really about knowing yourself in the world as a small part of a wider context. Ego and pride are the two great enemies of the alchemist who must even be vigilant lest they be prideful of their humility. If knowing yourself as others know you is the ideal state of self-awareness then the true alchemist would strive to understand how the world works, how memory, abstraction, signs, and reason interlock to form new ideas or even ideas that up to that point never existed at all, and they might call it creativity. Alchemy is more about the intangible nature of cognition than it ever was about gold or lead, the wind and the surf, the eagle or the fish, fire or air. Alchemy is about dust and smoke, about lost in-between spaces, about the haze that hangs over a river on a cool spring morning, about unformed spaces and liminal crossings, shadows, hybridization and mixing, chaos and non-linearity, fragmentation, repeating infinitely and disappearing on the horizon. Alchemists will listen, but their words are few. Better to be an enigma than to spread needless gossip and untrue rumors. Let vulture capitalism try to turn lead into gold. That is a simulacrum that will drag many an unwary participant down the rat-hole of unfettered consumerism and out-of-control spending in an attempt to buy happiness. When your garage is so full of crap your cars no longer fit, ask yourself this: have you turned lead into gold? Or have you been deceived by a marauding cooperate culture of overt consumerism and the blind pursuit of materialism? The alchemist’s garage, if he ever had one, is, of course, empty.

On alchemy

I have always thought that most people do not understand alchemy at all, and they think that this ancient science is about changing lead into gold. Other than an interesting smoke screen for those who might stick their noses in where they don’t belong, alchemy has never been about changing anything except for the way we might think about things. It’s just easier to tell those who would concern themselves with material things that alchemists are trying to change one element into another–magic, in other words. All alchemists know, however, that the world is how it is, unchangeable, and that lead has its purpose too, unalterable from the beginning of time–common sense, not magic. There are those people, however, with little imagination and no ability for critical thinking, who think that magic will give them a little extra help, an advantage, so to speak, and put a little extra money and wealth into their pockets. Alchemy never has had anything to do with wealth or possessions or materialistic pursuits. Most alchemists, true alchemists, will probably never even admit to being an alchemist at all. What alchemists do, or did, was to work to understand the nature of the world and the things in it. Alchemists have known since the beginning of time that gold is what it is, but that gold never answered anyone’s questions about the nature of existence, never bought or restored happiness, ruined more than one life that sought to worship it. It isn’t that gold isn’t useful, but it can’t be an end in and of itself. You will never have enough no matter what you might think. If you carry just a token piece of gold, it will always suffice to remind you that the unhealthy pursuit of gold only leads to ruin. Whatever alchemy might be, it has nothing to do with gold. Perhaps alchemy is really about knowing yourself in the world as a small part of a wider context. Ego and pride are the two great enemies of the alchemist who must even be vigilant lest they be prideful of their humility. If knowing yourself as others know you is the ideal state of self-awareness then the true alchemist would strive to understand how the world works, how memory, abstraction, signs, and reason interlock to form new ideas or even ideas that up to that point never existed at all, and they might call it creativity. Alchemy is more about the intangible nature of cognition than it ever was about gold or lead, the wind and the surf, the eagle or the fish, fire or air. Alchemy is about dust and smoke, about lost in-between spaces, about the haze that hangs over a river on a cool spring morning, about unformed spaces and liminal crossings, shadows, hybridization and mixing, chaos and non-linearity, fragmentation, repeating infinitely and disappearing on the horizon. Alchemists will listen, but their words are few. Better to be an enigma than to spread needless gossip and untrue rumors. Let vulture capitalism try to turn lead into gold. That is a simulacrum that will drag many an unwary participant down the rat-hole of unfettered consumerism and out-of-control spending in an attempt to buy happiness. When your garage is so full of crap your cars no longer fit, ask yourself this: have you turned lead into gold? Or have you been deceived by a marauding cooperate culture of overt consumerism and the blind pursuit of materialism? The alchemist’s garage, if he ever had one, is, of course, empty.