Students in the first-year writing seminar “Don Quixote Now,” have compiled the following texts engaging with the work of Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes. These texts have emerged from a shared curiosity about Cervantes’ worldview and from the joys, challenges and powerful reflections that “Don Quixote” and its legacy have inspired for the class. A defining feature of the novel is its constant interplay of genres, voices and images to tell the myth of an individual who, after reading chivalric tales, believes he is a knight living out heroic journeys. By inserting and continually reframing stories, the book offers an often fragmented yet multilayered narrative that evokes a palimpsest. As a unifying prompt for our collective submission for “Myths, Folklore and Superstitions,” we asked ourselves: How would we insert our own story into “Don Quixote”?

Prologue, by Yoel Castillo Botello

I first met Don Quixote when I was seven, within the pages of one of the first books published in Cuba after the Revolution. It was a beautiful, illustrated edition, printed in 1959 by the newly funded National Printing House under the direction of famed author Alejo Carpentier. My parents, both literature professors, treasured that edition, and my mother used it when teaching her Spanish literature course. Each evening, she would realize that the book was missing, only to find it later under my pillow, its pages marked a little further. I’d often sit beneath a yellowing “Don Quixote” poster painted by Pablo Picasso hanging on one of the living room walls, next to another poster of Charlie Chaplin in “The Kid,” and do what any normal child would do: battle giants that I allowed to live only if they agreed to read with me. That’s how the most dangerous monsters of my Perestroika childhood—the mosquitoes, Predator, “el coco,” the Gremlins, the wolf (the Soviet one in “I’ll get you!”), my nebulizer, Gargamel, “el imperialismo yanki,” the bookworms, the Spanish soldiers in “Elpidio Valdés,” a few hurricanes, Zarm, Mafalda’s soup, my older sister’s basketball, my little brother and our dog named Linda—became literate.

My siblings were usually unbothered, annoyed or quite amused by my eccentric worldview. And while my mother planned her lessons, I would also plan how to steal her book, safely bring it back into my realm and declare everybody’s freedom to be read “Don Quixote” by me. This was hardly the only type of madness I performed as a child, certainly not the worst, so I naturally struggled to understand why it became such a cause of concern. Alarmed by my obsession with a 385-year-old character I couldn’t possibly understand, my parents hid the book from me, becoming the benevolent inquisitors guarding their son from myths too early and dreams too vast to hold. To appease me, they bought an illustrated children’s edition, which I refused to read because it could not possibly tell the true story. Years later, when I was old enough to learn about the Revolution’s own censored books—the other “forbidden” Quixotes of my generation, deemed too subversive or too likely to disturb our minds—I understood the difference between the fear of fantasy and the fear of freedom. Since then, I’ve read everything that I was ever told not to. As I teach “Don Quixote” now, I still battle giants—sometimes as Quixote, others as Sancho Panza, often even as Rocinante—but now alongside students who have bravely joined the quest to read with unstoppable force.

Chapter I: Don Quixote Now

Concerning how quixotic madness, idealism and belief manifest in the 21st century through technology, politics and superstition.

“Don Quixote 2.0,” by Eddie McElroy

If Quixote were alive today, his mind would not be overrun with the gallant and epic adventures of chivalric past knights. Instead, he would be enamored with the internet and all of its absurd myths. His days would be filled with consuming information from Reddit, YouTube Shorts, TikTok and Instagram Reels. He would be so bewildered and fascinated with artificial intelligence and brain rot memes until he declared it was his destiny to conquer his foes in the name of the glorious King Lebron James. He would go around looking for the stormtroopers hiding in forests, search for goblins attacking princess towers and endlessly wander until he found what was in North Liberty.

“The New Internet Sensation,” by Jayson Alegria

Quixote truly believes in the myths of knighthood. He believes he’s a knight righting wrongs and bringing upon justice. If Quixote himself were put through a time portal and dropped into the modern-day world, what would he believe? There’s a good chance he would adore the idea of the internet and use it to promote his ideas and journeys. The internet would essentially become his new library filled with chivalric romances. Quixote would livestream his quests and narrate every act for all his followers and the world. While most viewers would comment on his absurdity and delusions, Quixote would disregard them as internet trolls who didn’t want him to succeed. His videos would begin to go viral, as viewers around the world would join together to get a laugh at the decisions he makes, Quixote thinking he’s righting wrongs but in reality embarrassing himself. Every beating, chivalric speech and “giant” that he livestreams would turn into an internet spectacle or meme. Quixote would ride through the internet just like he rode through La Mancha, turning Wi-Fi and internet pixels into windmills and enchanters.

“An Errant Philosophy,” by Hannah Satran

If Quixote lived today, he would most certainly knock on wood. He would lift his feet when driving over train tracks, eat twelve grapes on New Year’s Eve and toss salt over his left shoulder. He was born on Friday the 13th, and on the way into the hospital, his mother encountered a black cat scurrying across the parking lot. In high school drama class, he never dared to utter “Macbeth” and to this day he avoids ladders at all costs.

It was a religious act of desperate faith. Yet despite every act he carried out to maintain good luck, every offering he made to the gods of chance, he just couldn’t seem to shake his misfortune. His religion, it seemed, lacked a god, but his scripture was brimming with morals and warnings.

I would imagine this became frustrating. So frustrating, in fact, that in an attempt to change his unlucky fate, he became a knight-errant, exchanging superstition for delusion. He believed in the unbelievable, not because it was fun, but because to make sense of the ever-pushing, ever-pressing world, he had to create his own.

And this time he is confident his efforts will work, even if, suited in his armor, he still yells “JINX!”, just to be completely sure.

“Beautiful Belief,” by Finn Waterston

Quixote’s personality pops up all around my life—often taking my body as its host. Throughout the years, I’ve held myself to a hard and fast standard. Each time I step on a pothole, I make sure to pat myself on the back three times. This is, obviously, to avoid the Pandora’s box of maladies and plagues that would be sprung upon me if I somehow failed to do so. Oftentimes, out of prudence, I find myself patting patterns of three in anticipation of more missteps to come. Now, in a world where potholes foreshadow disaster and misfortune, my copious precautions would no doubt be rewarded. Similarly, Quixote’s bravery when battling the monstrous windmills would be rewarded in a world where chivalric duty was of the utmost importance. Although my superstitious beliefs may seem ridiculous, I’m certain you have some just like mine. Now, having established that we all fall on this Quixotic spectrum one way or another, is it not beautiful to see Quixote and his extraordinary capacity to believe in the irrational and unlikely? Like a rare gem, his life must be treasured and remembered for all time—as he believed like no other.

“Don Quixote in Our World,” by Brendan McLoughlin

Quixote is often mocked and deemed a madman. What the people who judge him fail to realize is the root to his motives and why he acts the way that he does. Instead of taking the time to account for the reasons behind his actions, he’s completely disregarded and his mission loses all credibility. The same thing can be said of the modern world: Tragedy occurs everywhere and everyday, yet the people who immediately act are viewed as illogical and irrational. Why is it that we’re all so comfortable with politicizing and moving on from the murder of children in Gaza, victims of mass shootings, migrants being ripped out of their homes and the destruction of the environment? The idea that individuals can affect change in their communities or across the globe has come to be viewed as nothing more than a myth. Quixote’s actions are fueled by his displeasure of the injustices of the world. The execution of Quixote’s chivalry undermines the seriousness of his actions, but people fail to take into account the reasons behind his actions. In our own world, we may be turned off by the extreme measures that individuals will take to draw attention to their causes but that shouldn’t diminish the importance of their causes. If nothing else, we should take the time to evaluate why people would go to such extraordinary measures to enact change.

Chapter II. Voices of the Enchanted

Regarding the unexpected voices of the mythic world of La Mancha coming alive.

“The Knight’s Horse,” by Mason Dawkins

I don’t really know why I’m still following this old man around. He calls himself Don Quixote—some knight, I guess. Ever since he threw a saddle on me, it’s been nothing but bruises, blisters and one crazy mess after another. One time, I walked over to say hi to a few ponies we passed—just trying to be friendly—and their owners chased me off with sticks. And my so-called master? Lying flat in the dirt, mumbling about honor or giants or something just as useless.

I’m not young anymore. My legs creak when I lie down, and it takes forever to stand back up. You can see my ribs now. Last week, I think I chewed on part of an old boot someone left in the grass—and, honestly, it was the best thing I’d eaten in days.

The worst part? This whole mess started when he charged at a windmill. A windmill. He said it was a giant. I just stood there, reins hanging loose, thinking, “Is this really my life now?” But I followed him anyway. What else could I do? Wander off and hope I find a field with my name on it?

Lately I’ve been thinking about running. Not far—just far enough to get away. Away from the armor sounds, away from his weird speeches, away from whatever disaster is waiting next. Maybe I’d find a quiet spot with real grass. No voices. No battles. No men pretending to be heroes. Just grass.

“Through My Eyes,” by Joe Covell

Why do they all call my owner crazy? My name is Rocinante, and I am Quixote’s horse. I have never been given a voice, only a name. But I see what my owner sees. I see the giants, I see the armies battling and all the knights, but not as he sees them. I have truly seen the enchanter that deceives every character besides Quixote, and the enchanter is not just one person but instead all the evil found in the world. The greed of the windmill owners manifests as giants; The anger and cruelty of the shepherds turned them and their sheep into two battling armies. People choose to ignore the flaws of our world, but not Quixote. He sees evil as it truly is and chooses to fight back. My vision depicts the world as it truly is: filled with greed, filled with anger, filled to the brim with evil energy. But I was not given a voice, and yet even with a voice, both Quixote and I would be deemed mad. Humanity turns a blind eye to injustice if it benefits them, but not me, and not my owner, and together we seek to defeat this evil.

“Everyone at the Inn Swore They Saw It, But I Know What I Saw: A Shapeshifting Person” by Jessica Morales

Quixote was not a stranger to being called crazy or mad. In fact, he can’t remember a day when he wasn’t considered mad for his observations of inns as castles or windmills as giants. Quixote had become aware of people’s opinions of him, but they never changed his certainty about the mystical things that he saw. To him everyone was simply blind. However, on one fateful night, everyone caught a glimpse of something that would change their perception of Quixote and of their own lives.

Quixote was staying at the inn for a night, at the insistence of Sancho Panza, who desperately needed food and rest. The innkeeper was listening to Quixote’s speech about chivalry and his recent adventures. Suddenly, a tall man dressed in dark colors walked into the inn. The innkeeper welcomed him, though he did not respond. Quixote took notice of him and remarked “That man has a secret, and I’m going to figure it out!” He snuck up behind the man and hid under a table behind him. Quixote watched him as he ate, noticing how he bit into his bread with sharp, fanged teeth.

“Señor,” Sancho began, “leave that man alone! He’s hardly a threat to anyone.”

“Quiet, Sancho! I’ll figure out his secret soon, and you’ll see how right I was!”

Quixote, extremely determined to prove himself right, hid behind the man for an hour until he jumped out and began to attack. Quixote jumped on the man’s back, which caused the innkeeper and Sancho to yell in surprise at the scene. Quixote began to punch while the man tried to wrestle him off his back. The man succeeded and ran out of the inn, but not before shifting into a wolf-like creature at the last second. The innkeeper and Sancho stared at each other in disbelief. Meanwhile, Quixote yelled, “See! I was right!”

Chapter III. Folklore and the Absurd

Which tells of playful encounters between modern absurdities and ancient wonder turning humor into a new form of belief.

“We See Windmills, He Sees Giants,” by Alex Stein

Among the various concerned citizens who comprised the ragtag membership of the Mollusk Alliance Against Offshore Wind Farms, one man stuck out. He was decked out head to toe in glistening chainmail armor, a shield in one hand and a homemade sign in the other. “Verily, thou ought to forbid our foes, these giants, from infringing on our seas.”

When pressed, the man, who only spoke in Spanish-tinged Shakespearean English, was unwilling to acknowledge the windmills as anything other than rampaging giants.

So he tried unsuccessfully to launch an assault on these so-called giants, charged at them from the beach, sank to the bottom of the ocean under the weight of his metal armor and probably would’ve drowned there if not for the watchful eye of an armed guard employed by the Shoreline Windmill Corporation of Dover, Del. hired specifically to deter any possible ecoterrorism. When pressed, the guard described the encounter as “by far the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some pretty weird things.”

“Don Quixote Takes on Self Checkout,” by Jessie Ward

I went into the store only to buy a Diet Coke. We were just barely halfway in our road trip from Tampa, Fla. to Savannah, Ga., and this general store had looked like the perfect stop. Inside, there were two other customers—one an old woman, who was dressed in a pretty skirt and a colorful top, and the other an older man, who was covered head to toe in what seemed to be armor. On his head was a bowl, perhaps a helmet. If it were not for his confused stance, I would have believed some terror was coming. As I continued through the aisles, I could hear him fidgeting with the self checkout. I could hear the sounds of metal on metal, almost as if he was using his iron rod as a pen on the iPad. As he talked to himself about the evil coming from the machine, I looked towards the woman, hoping I wasn’t the only one to share this worry, yet she seemed unfazed, as if this wasn’t the first time with this man. As I walked out of the store, Diet Coke in hand, I could still hear the computer saying, “Insert card here,” but it was muffled by the man’s shouts—“This devil is trying to take the money of innocent ongoers!”

Chapter IV. Myths, Mirrors and Monsters

In which myth becomes meditation and delusion lyric; closing the arch, we are left with the enduring solitude of the Knight of the Sorrowful Face.

“Don Quixote and Icarus,” by Valeria Contreras-Orendain

Icarus, the boy with the wings of wax, flew up towards the sun, reaching for more despite warnings not to do so. The blind idealism and thirst for glory led to him falling from such heights he was trying to achieve. Such a man lived somewhere in the Mancha. His wings were perpetually melting, dragging him down with them. He turned windmills to giants and peasant girls to glorious ladies; The people around him worried and warned him. Yet he leapt off a cliff every time he sought for his adventures ultimately landing in a ditch beaten and bruised. Quixote is said to be insane because of how captivated he is by chivalric novels, while Icarus is said to be prideful because of his hubris. Both were ruined ultimately by dissatisfaction. A tale as old as time: someone with so much always wanting more. The world was too ordinary for Quixote; he wanted giants and princesses to the point where he was willing to die for this life. It’s a tale as old as time, a man who chases fantasy without appreciating reality.

“The Man Who Mistook Men for Monsters,” by Alex Genua

They told stories

of a knight who fought giants made of wind.

They forgot

he killed mule drivers with the same faith he used to pray.

What is a myth,

if not a mistake retold enough times to sound holy?

 

Don Quixote,

you were never a hero

only a mirror

that shimmered

long enough to become a legend.

 

The gods must have loved you

for mistaking madness for meaning,

 

and the people loved you, too,

for giving them something to whisper about when the world

felt too sane.

“The Last Knight’s Soliloquy,” by Justin Zhang

A battle cry trembling with melancholy beneath the armor.

 

Steel in hand, I speak to the wind.

Valor of my arm and sharp edge of my sword,

there is no danger on earth through which my sound does not clear path.

Once, kingdoms trembled at the thunder of a rider’s oath.

Once, maidens called upon our names as on the saints.

Now the only foe that answers me is laughter.

 

A knight’s love is chaste;

It is a flame expecting no warmth in return.

I have sworn to defend a lady’s good name and glory,

though she needs no saving, and I

am but a fool who calls her “Princess” in a world without crowns.

 

The giants I have slain were wineskins bleeding red,

their roars but the sighs of air escaping my dreams.

The bruises I’ve taken,

were from windmills turning their patient arms

in a tired sun.

I charged a bleating army and paid in molars;

But I say, they were nothing but truths, hid from me by enchanters.

 

Still—arms above letters!

Let the ink-stained men mock the clatter of my steel. For words may outlive deeds,

but only deeds know the taste of dust.

 

Yet, it grieves my very soul

that I have taken up the profession of knight-errant

in an age as despicable as this one.

Powder and tin have made heroes of cowards,

and in this age of iron, where time has passed and

wickedness spread, no maiden is safe, even if hidden in another labyrinth,

for it is not beasts that devour her now, but men.

 

And I—The Knight of the Sorrowful Face—

will ride until my horse grows thin as parchment,

and my name folded into the books

of those scholars I once defied.

I ride.

The world finds no task for me,

yet the heart has not learned surrender.