By Prof. Nathan Boucher

Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quixote, published in two parts between 1605 and 1615, stands as the first modern novel and a cornerstone of Western literature. The tale follows Alonso Quixano, a man so consumed by chivalric romances that he transforms himself into Don Quixote de La Mancha, a self-appointed knight-errant determined to restore a golden age that exists only in his imagination. His most famous folly—charging at windmills he perceives as menacing giants—has endured as literature's definitive metaphor for battling phantoms. In Donald Trump's political persona and governing philosophy, we find a contemporary echo of Cervantes' deluded idealist, though the stakes of modern quixotry prove far more perilous than those of Renaissance Spain.

The Seduction of Mythologized Time

Both men are prisoners of their own nostalgic mythology. Trump's political identity crystallizes around "Make America Great Again," a slogan that conjures an America scrubbed clean of historical complexity—a nation of perpetual prosperity, unquestioned authority, and cultural homogeneity that never truly existed in the form imagined. Like Quixote's romanticized vision of medieval chivalry, this "great" America serves not as historical fact but as emotional truth, a narrative designed to mobilize resentment against the present while promising a return to an impossible past.

This mythologizing functions as more than mere nostalgia; it becomes a lens through which all contemporary reality must be filtered. Just as Quixote sees castles where others see inns, Trump perceives betrayal where others see democratic process, invasion where others see immigration, and conspiracy where others see institutional function. The mythologized past doesn't inform policy—it distorts perception.

Manufacturing Enemies from Shadows

Quixote's madness manifests in his compulsive reinterpretation of mundane reality as epic conflict. A similar dynamic drives Trump's political imagination, which transforms routine democratic processes into existential battles against shadowy forces. Elections become "rigged," career civil servants become the "deep state," and asylum seekers become "invasions." These aren't policy disagreements but cosmic struggles between good and evil, with Trump cast as democracy's singular defender against forces that exist primarily in his own rhetoric.

The genius of this strategy lies in its unfalsifiability. Like Quixote's enchanters who supposedly disguise giants as windmills, Trump's enemies are simultaneously everywhere and nowhere—powerful enough to threaten civilization yet invisible enough to explain away contradictory evidence. The absence of proof becomes proof of the conspiracy's sophistication, creating a closed loop of paranoia that no amount of facts can penetrate.

Performance as Reality

Both figures understand that in politics, as in literature, performance can supersede substance. Don Quixote's makeshift armor and decrepit horse Rocinante are props in an elaborate theater of self-deception, just as Trump's carefully cultivated image—the golden towers, the superlatives, the theatrical rallies—creates a reality through sheer repetition and spectacle.

This performance extends beyond individual psychology to encompass entire political movements. Quixote convinces not only himself but eventually Sancho Panza and various other characters to participate in his fantasies. Similarly, Trump's political success stems not from policy achievements but from his ability to make millions of Americans co-conspirators in his version of reality. The performance becomes the politics, and the politics become the performance, until the distinction vanishes entirely.

The Enablers' Dilemma

The relationship between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza—the dreamer and his pragmatic accomplice—finds its modern parallel in Trump's relationship with Republican leadership. Like Sancho, many GOP officials recognize their leader's delusions while calculating that indulgence serves their interests better than confrontation. They speak in code, offering qualified support while maintaining plausible deniability, trapped between their own ambitions and their leader's fantasies.

This dynamic reveals how individual delusion can become institutional dysfunction. Sancho's enablement of Quixote remains relatively harmless because it occurs within the bounds of fiction. When Republican officials enable Trump's fantasies, they compromise democratic institutions and normalize the subordination of truth to power.

Where Metaphor Meets Reality

The comparison illuminates as much through its limitations as its parallels. Cervantes' knight-errant, for all his folly, embodies genuine idealism—his delusions stem from an excess of noble sentiment rather than calculated self-interest. Don Quixote seeks to protect the innocent and defend the defenseless, however misguided his methods. His madness contains a kernel of moral purpose that makes him ultimately sympathetic.

Trump's quixotry, by contrast, serves primarily narcissistic ends. Where Quixote fights imaginary giants to protect imaginary damsels, Trump fights imaginary enemies to protect his own ego and political survival. The performance of heroism replaces actual heroism, just as the performance of patriotism replaces actual service to country.

More crucially, Quixote's adventures typically harm only himself and occasionally Sancho, creating comedy rather than tragedy. Trump's delusions carry far graver consequences: they have inspired violence, undermined electoral integrity, and weakened democratic norms. When fantasy becomes policy and performance becomes governance, the windmills transform from symbols into weapons.

The Tragedy of Misdirected Energy

Don Quixote endures because it captures something essential about human nature—our capacity for self-deception, our hunger for meaning, and our willingness to choose comfortable fictions over difficult truths. Cervantes' genius lies in showing how these tendencies can be simultaneously ridiculous and touching, destructive and oddly admirable.

Trump's political career reveals the same human susceptibilities operating at a societal scale. His success demonstrates how skillfully crafted narratives can override factual reality, how performance can substitute for competence, and how the promise of restored greatness can eclipse the hard work of actual improvement. In this sense, he represents not an aberration but an amplification of tendencies that exist within democratic societies—the preference for simple stories over complex truths, for emotional satisfaction over rational analysis.

The enduring power of both figures lies in their ability to offer their audiences a starring role in their own stories. Don Quixote transforms Sancho from a simple peasant into a governor (however briefly), just as Trump transforms his supporters from passive citizens into warriors in a cosmic battle. Both promise that dedication to the fantasy will unlock hidden nobility and purpose.

Yet here the comparison reaches its most sobering conclusion. Don Quixote's madness ultimately hurts primarily himself, creating a poignant meditation on the gap between aspiration and reality. Trump's delusions, weaponized through modern media and political institutions, threaten the very foundations of democratic governance. When enough people choose to live in the same fantasy, that fantasy can reshape reality itself—not through magic, but through the collective abandonment of shared truth.

The windmills Don Quixote attacks remain windmills, indifferent to his delusions. The institutions Trump attacks are far more fragile, and their destruction would leave not comedy in its wake, but genuine tragedy. In this light, the comparison serves not just as literary analysis but as warning: when quixotry moves from the realm of individual eccentricity to mass political movement, the jest becomes a threat, and the metaphor becomes a crisis.

Nathan Boucher is an associate professor of public policy, nursing, and medicine at Duke University, Durham, NC. He conducts research in long term care and aging policy.