Long ago, I started a list of books that I wanted to read. I figured I’d check them off as I went and slowly, I would actually read them all. The list is a mixture of classic and modern literature, some of which has been recommended to me and others that I knew of and have wanted to read myself. One novel that I had been dying to read was Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. I picked it up last summer and started reading it, and when I say last summer I mean the summer of 2010. I was so excited to finally be reading this novel that I didn’t care how thick it was or how heavy. People laughed when I would pull this book out of my purse and ask me why I was lugging it around. They couldn’t understand why, in their minds, I would choose to read something so grandiose when there was plenty of literature available in the “smaller” variety. There ignorance of this great work of fiction was the encouragement I needed to continue…or so I thought.
I have to confess that I have only gotten through about a quarter of the novel. It’s not that it isn’t entertaining. I actually laughed out loud numerous times while the novel accompanied me as I rode public transportation or sat at my desk at work. The problem that I found with Don Quixote was not so much the content, but the repetition of it. The main character, Don Quixote, constantly gets into scrapes and then gets out of them. He has his own reality and constantly miss-assumes things as other than what they really are. I got a little bored with the repetition and am sorry to say that my copy has been sitting on my shelf collecting dust for the past year, but I have decided to open it up again and delve into it with the determination to finish it this time around. It really is a great novel; just one that might need to be read in strides instead of all at once.