The remains of Miguel de Cervantes were discovered this past week, having reposed under the crypt of the Convent for the Barefoot Trinitarians since 1616. While The Scrapbook is inclined to celebrate—if that is the word—the identification of literary remains, our excitement was tempered when we began to (ahem) scratch the surface of the news from Madrid.
As it turns out, excavators have not been able to positively identify the bones as belonging to Cervantes. In fact, the bones they contend are the great writer’s were buried along with numerous decaying remains, rendering it nearly impossible to differentiate which are unique to the father of the modern novel and which belong to his fellow Madrileños. Undeterred, the forensic team is pushing forward, performing DNA tests even though genetic identification is a near impossibility.
There is an edifying scene near the beginning of Don Quixote, where our knight-errant is in prequest mode, busily preparing a proper suit of armor for the adventures to come. After fashioning a makeshift helmet, he tests its durability with a few blows of the sword, undoing a week’s worth of labor in a few seconds. As many scholars point out, upon completion of a second, seemingly more durable helmet, Quixote refrains from any more “tests,” satisfied this new helmet is the “finest ever made.” We might conclude that sometimes one ought to test, test, test away, and sometimes it is best to leave the simple enchantments of life undisturbed.
Shakespeare, who died within a day of Cervantes, wisely left nothing up to pesky modernity. On his gravestone, the epitaph reads:
Good friend for Jesus’ sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones
And cursed be he that moves my bones.