SOURCE: Eoff, Sherman. “The Picaresque Psychology of Guzmán de Alfarache.” Hispanic Review 21, no. 2 (April 1953): 107-19.

[In the following essay, Eoff examines the psychology of the protagonist of Guzmán de Alfarache, dividing the story into sections which portray the protagonist's increasing shamelessness, deceit, and buffoonery.]

What is the psychology of a pícaro? Can we profit by study the varieties of this literary type as we would individual human beings enmeshed in their environment? There is general agreement that the Spanish picaresque novel of the seventeenth century, more than a special kind of narrative form growing out of literary antecedents, is the expression of an attitude substantially determined by social, moral, and economic conditions of the age in which it flourished. What has been said on the subject, however, has to do largely with the mass psychology of la picardía as an indication of national consciousness, rather than with the psychology of individuals.¹ Briefly, the picaresque attitude is visualized within two major perspectives, the one bearing on the heart-free enjoyment of an extrasocial life, and the other on somber disillusionment.

We are told, for example, that the pícaro, infected with the collective spirit of parasitism and holgazanería, derisively turns away from impotent moralism,² voluntarily embracing a life of shameless vagabondage, and never desiring to be other than what he is.³ Wanting above all to live in accord with his spontaneous nature, he scorns conventional values, proclaims his indifference to material possessions, and bases his happiness on freedom from all attachments. He represents, in fact, a Renaissance revival of the ancient opposition of Nature to convention; though he finds he must realize his ideal by means of “la vida buscona” within society rather than with tramps and beggars.⁴ With rebellious carelessness and self-sufficiency, he rides the waves of chance, giving little thought to the morrow because of his belief in predestination.⁵

We are thus led to think of the pícaro almost as we would of a Romantic hero. But his gay abandon, we are reminded, also contains the dregs of wretchedness. His vitality is a negative force without grandeur—an inexhaustible supply of energy which takes the place of courage as he faces the reverses of fortune in a miserable existence.⁶ In vain he seeks to break the bonds of the environment which conspires against him.⁷ And the self-deception of his efforts to improve his well-being, discernible in the sadness of his humor, takes the form of a cynical, stoical contempt for humanity.⁸ So it is that Guzmán de Alfarache revels in the baseness of society, but he does so with a bitter taste in his mouth,⁹ for “Todo lo ve con rencor y amargura.”¹⁰

The evidence of disillusionment here referred to can also be used to support the contention that the Spanish picaresque novels are essentially confessions of sinners who rebel against social and religious laws only to repent of their folly.¹¹ Within the narrow focus of this viewpoint, Guzmán de Alfarache is primarily an exemplary novel which illustrates the doctrine that man by falling into abject delinquency comes to realize both the need of God's saving grace and the opportunity of salvation for all men, however sinful.¹² We are thus asked to accept the moralistic aspects of the picaresque novel as constituting its foremost significance.

The representative opinions briefly presented above, though seemingly contradictory in some respects, provide us, when taken together, with a fairly inclusive synthesis of the mass consciousness embodied in the literary genre with which we are dealing. Our understanding of the pícaro, however, will be more precise if we observe in proportioned distribution the various factors which operate in his behavior as an individual. We may well inquire further into the following questions: How much of a rebel and how much of a conformist is the pícaro? Is he basically opposed to convention and content to live outside the established social order? What is the nature of his individualism, and what is his peculiar mode of adjustment to an unfavorable environment? The surest way to answer these questions is to study one pícaro at a time. As a specific example, there can be no better choice than Guzmán de Alfarache, who is commonly considered the archtype of rogues.

Although Guzmán frequently withdraws from the role of protagonist and becomes the author's mouthpiece for reflective moralistic and “philosophical” commentary, there is ample material in the novel from which to reconstruct the psychological portrait of a person involved in the immediate exigencies of living. In order to concentrate on the psychology which is identified with a pícaro's activities rather than their penitent aftermath, we shall restrict our analysis to the Guzmán whom we find actively engaged. And we shall include as a basis for conclusions only those comments which are the natural accompaniment of the situations and happenings giving rise to them. It is important also to keep in mind that we are dealing with the story of a person's life, which must be viewed as a comprehensive narrative unit. Alemán himself conceived of his story as a biography having a progressive intensification and a finality of effect. In his expository foreword to the reader¹³ he designates three steps in the life of a youth who (1) leaves home in wilful pursuit of false pleasures, (2) adopts the vicious habits of a pícaro, and (3) comes to an unhappy pass because of his headstrong refusal to listen to good advice. Here and in the body of the novel the author overtly places emphasis on his moral purpose, which he reiterates in the conclusion with Guzmán's decision to reverse his waywardness. The moralism, however, is essentially Alemán's ascetic refuge from his own unrest, and is therefore a subsidiary consideration in a broader problem of social adjustment. For within the moralistic framework the narrative contains a second “story,” of social striving, accompanied by a virulent social criticism which reveals the author's own frustrated ambitions.¹⁴ From a narrative and psychological viewpoint, this phase of the novel is the most important, since it has to do with the hero's active living and therefore constitutes the heart of the plot. With all its structural looseness, Guzmán de Alfarache is a prototype of the modern socio-psychological novel of biographical design which, for one thing, recounts the ups and downs or the rise and fall of an individual, and, for another, portrays the close relationship between environment and individual character. Guzmán's psychology must be observed from a vantage point that encompasses in one comprehensive view the several stages of his reaction to environment. The major steps in the biography (or autobiography) are as follows:

1. INITIAL CONFRONTATION WITH A “CRUEL” SOCIETY (I, I-I, II).¹⁵

The first step in the personal history is an explanation—with illustrative scenes and action—of how Guzmán comes to be a pícaro. The explanation underscores environment in combination with circumstances which the youth classifies under the heading of necessity. During the first twelve years of his life Guzmán has been accustomed to an atmosphere of social and materialistic ease, exposed particularly to an air of sensuality and moral laxity in his home, and in some degree to the general low level of morality in the city of Seville. Moreover, he is a spoiled, undisciplined child, trained neither to work nor to depend on himself. When his family's finances rapidly deteriorate and his father (that is, his mother's husband) dies, he sets out from home, hoping to occupy a position in society befitting his noble connections (his relatives in Italy) and looking forward to a pleasant reception in the world. As he later remarks, “Todo se me figuraba de contento. … Todo lo fabriqué próspero en mi ayuda (I, 167).¹⁶

Guzmán's disillusionment comes quickly as he falls victim to trickery and injustice and witnesses deception on all sides. Hungry and without money, he ponders his unfortunate circumstances, pausing in his journey momentarily to serve an innkeeper, “aunque se me hacía duro aprender a servir habiendo sido enseñado a mandar” (II, 18). But he is determined to go to Madrid, where “todo florecía, con muchos del tusón, muchos grandes …” and where “Parecióme que por mi persona y talle todos me favorecieran” (II, 13-14). He therefore follows the lead of other itinerant boys, priding himself on being able, as they are, to face the hardships of begging. He thus adjusts his sense of honor—in the name of necessity—to that of his companions; and by the time he reaches Madrid he is, the author tells us, a pícaro. The transition has been rapidly sketched, probably because the author is anxious to complete his introductory step and plunge into a full picture of a pícaro's life. But certain important factors are discernible in the psychological development: ambitions for a life of wealth and ease, adoption of devious means as being necessary to the end in view, and a weakening in personal dignity. The latter has resulted primarily from begging, which has been a gateway to la picardía because it has brought about the loss of a sense of shame: “La vergüenza … perdíla por los caminos” (II, 25).

2. THE LIFE OF AN ADOLESCENT PíCARO (I, II, II-II, I, VII).

Guzmán now replaces vergüenza with desenvoltura as he joins the ranks of young rogues in Madrid and quickly becomes proficient in their ways. For a short time he glories in a boyish freedom from responsibility and care. This exaltation of freedom, however, is substantially an indemnification for his restrained desires; for he is plainly making an excuse for his own dishonor when he belittles the superficial conception of honor held by the average citizen. (The author at this point [I, II, iii-iv] comes to his hero's aid and delivers a discourse on “las vanas honras” as opposed to true honor or virtue.) That Guzmán's panegyric on the free life of a pícaro is a rationalization of his unwillingness to assume individual responsibility is further confirmed by the fact that he accepts service with a cocinero, enticed by the latter's glamorous picture of the possibilities for rising in the trade and becoming rich. Although Guzmán applies himself diligently and learns to be a model servant, his essential behavior remains the same. Finding ample excuses in the actions of his superiors, he indulges in trickery, thievery, and self-gratification, and enjoys being in the swim of life in accord with the moral standards of the common herd: “comía, bebía, holgaba, pasando alegremente mi carrera” (II, 68).

Guzmán thus voluntarily abandons la picardía of the street and enters a section of the established social order to which his age and circumstances grant him admission. In doing so, he merely transfers his chosen norms of conduct to a higher social category, where he remains until forced back by necessity to a lower level. This continuous oscillation between lower and higher social levels marks the general pattern of his entire career. When the cocinero dismisses him, he returns to the street. But he rises again when he robs an especiero, dresses as an aristocrat, and sets out for Toledo. Here he plays the part of a galán, imagining “que mi padre era vivo y que yo estaba restituído al tiempo de sus prosperidades” (II, 119). After being duped by “unas damas,” he moves on to Almagro, where he exhausts his money in lavish display and then becomes the servant of a captain in the army. Losing this job, he seeks out his uncle in Genoa, only to be cruelly burlado and forced once more to resort to begging as he makes his way toward Rome. While serving the Cardinal in Rome, he exhibits especially his assertiveness and his determination to enjoy life. In this section of the novel the author takes special delight in recording burlas, apparently for their narrative interest only. Even so, it is clear that the burla is a means by which the central character builds up his pride in competition with others. At the same time, Guzmán's boldness and independence are always restricted by his desire to ingratiate himself with his superiors. This is a prominent aspect of his behavior while he is with the Cardinal and continues to be conspicuous in his stay with the French ambassador, whom he serves with his usual diligence and astuteness.

3. THE LIFE OF AN ADULT PíCARO (II, I, VIII-II, III, IX).

When Guzmán leaves the service of the French ambassador and decides to set out on his own, he is about twenty years old. He has promised himself that he will mend his ways morally, and he does refrain from thievery for a while as he travels over Italy in company with his servant Sayavedra. He would no doubt have been content to live a “correct”—but easy—life if his supply of money had been endless. As he remarks on leaving Florence, “Allí viviera yo y lo pasara como un duque, si tuviera con qué” (III, 254). With his money exhausted, however, he again resorts to duplicity. But this time he is intent on investing his trickery with the finesse and sophistication befitting one who occupies a privileged social position: “No te hagas reo,” he says, “si tienes paño para ser actor” (III, 258). He is unjustly imprisoned in Bologna when he tries lawfully to recover property which had been stolen from him, and he complains bitterly of poverty and injustice. But, since he is cowed by his inability to cope with those in a more influential position than he, he turns the deceptiveness of society to his account by using it to justify his own fraudulence. For he now plans grandiose coups with great caution and carefulness. With the magnanimity born of pride in his talents, he boasts: “Amigo Sayavedra, ésta es la verdadera ciencia: hurtar sin peligrar y bien medrar. … Hurtar una saya y recebir cien azotes, quienquiera se lo sabe: más es la data que el cargo. Donde yo anduviere, bien podrán los de vuestro tamaño bajar el estandarte” (IV, 73-74). He has elevated his picardía to a level where he can enjoy comforts, pleasures, and a spectacular position, while compensating for his inferiority. A high mark of such success is vividly represented by the episode in Genoa, where Guzmán robs his uncle, executing a burla in a grand manner without abandoning his aristocratic pose.

Fleeing with the wealth which he has cleverly and assiduously won, Guzmán makes his way back to Madrid, where he passes through a business interlude. He becomes a mohatrero, builds a fine home, marries the daughter of another mohatrero and dealer in contraescrituras, and for about six years lives a quiet and relatively stable life. The one noteworthy accession to his behavior is his greed: “viniéndose a juntar el tramposo con el codicioso” (IV, 220). But he now moves in semirespectable business circles, the upper reaches of la picardía. As he says of his business dealings, “Que, aunque verdaderamente aquesto es hurtar, quédase el nombre de mercaderes y no de ladrones” (IV, 227). In this comfortable and “approved” position Guzmán would have willingly remained indefinitely, had it not been for financial troubles. Under the impact of his new misfortune, he feels sorry for himself, blaming his wife in particular and, after his wife's death, rather unenthusiastically deciding upon theology as a convenient and safe career.

In Alcalá Guzmán enjoys for several years the gay freedom of student life. He then marries again and, when his mother-in-law loses her home and source of income and his own money and good reputation are exhausted, returns to Madrid. Here he determines to re-establish himself financially by taking advantage of his wife's beauty. His shamelessness, which has been a gradual growth through years of expedient behavior, reaches a climax as he “sells” his wife to wealthy men, reasoning with himself that “empeñada la honra, menos mal es que se venda” (V, 63). Careful to disguise before others his consent to dishonor, he now exhibits the high mark of his clownishness, which is heavily stamped with a desire for money and public attention, and with pretense, lack of courage, and finesse in deception. This state is but the culmination of a course of action in which moral flexibility has enabled him to bypass every difficulty standing in his way. It is the same guide to conduct which governs him as he leaves Madrid, for reasons of safety, and returns to Seville with wealth, a pretty wife, and all appearances of a successful life.

In Seville Guzmán would have been willing to live within the rules of civil law and convention if his wife had not absconded with his money. Faced once more with the necessity of earning his living, he resorts to the cunning of his boyhood in a series of burlas which the author recounts with his recurrent pleasure in narrating burlas for their own sake. When Guzmán finally ends up in the galleys, he displays again his talents for ingratiating himself with those above him, combining calculated advantage with spontaneous friendliness and timidity. His decision to reform, although an obvious manipulation on the part of the author to illustrate and terminate a moral theme, is itself an expression of a desire to be in an approved social position.

In short, the “psychological” story of Guzmán is that of a person who, heavily conditioned by his environment, aspires always to a comfortable and privileged position in society, resorts to subterfuge as a means of attaining his goal, rationalizes his moral disorderliness in the name of necessity and current social practices, develops pride in his expert chicanery as compensation for his inferiority, and reaches eventually a culminating point of greed, shamelessness, and buffoonery. Let us elaborate on this statement by examining its major implications under the following headings:

1. SOCIAL CONFORMITY.

Guzmán (like Alemán) subscribes without question to a belief in the established order. His desire to please his masters, to appear in a favorable light before others, to occupy a favored position, to be if possible a nobleman or at least a respected business man—all of his efforts to improve his state materially and socially, and even his repentance if we admit it as a part of his picaresque psychology—reveal his compliance, in principle, with the controlling powers in his society. His aspiration to a life of wealth and ease, which is his strongest motivation, is itself an expression of whole-hearted agreement with existing social standards. He is an example of unruly individualism in the sense that he refuses to exercise moral restraint. But his rebelliousness is nothing more than that of a youth who seeks unbridled self-gratification. If we regard him solely as a literary type created by an indignant satirist, he appears to be an instrument of opposition to the very social evils which he embodies. Considered, however, as an individual—of which the literary type is but an exaggerated representation—Guzmán opposes inequity and hypocrisy primarily because they thwart his personal ambitions. Sharing his creator's frustration, he attacks the “vanas honras” of the wealthy and privileged groups whose ranks he constantly strives to join. One aspect of his psychology, therefore, must be described as the “sour grapes” attitude of one who is on the outside wanting to be on the inside. Guzmán is not interested in seeing the social order changed; he merely wishes to change his position within the order.

2. CYNICAL ACCEPTANCE OF THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE.

Completely habituated to belief in the principle of status quo and lacking the will to combat existing standards, Guzmán adopts a laissez-faire attitude which will allow him to survive in the easiest possible way. His expansiveness, his desire to belong with others and to be in the midstream of active living, combines with his weakness of will and makes him an easy prey to his surroundings. Like a sponge he absorbs his environment and immerses himself in its mediocrity. Cheating and thievery appeal to him because they are commonly indulged in and because they afford an easy and comparatively safe means of satisfying his materialistic desires in a society that stresses ease. He recognizes the superficiality of his rules of conduct but follows the crowd because, he thinks, he can do nothing else and survive. That is, he can not survive if he acts independently of current practices. Hence his malleability hardens into a facesaving cynicism which asserts that what currently is, is justifiable because of being irremediable. Conditions are and always have been the way they are. Therefore, “Caminemos con ello como lo hicieron los pasados” (IV, 89-90).

3. RATIONALIZATION OF WEAKNESS.

Guzmán's cynicism is thus easily converted into a support for his violation of moral conventions, for which he repeatedly apologizes. In some degree he attributes his disorderliness to lack of discipline in his early childhood, to evil companions, and to the weakness of human nature, which seems to have settled in him with special vengeance. But most of all, he blames ill fortune, necessity, and the unfairness and corruptness of society. Now, hunger, corruptness, and the maldistribution of wealth and privilege may be fundamental causes that lie at the base of la picardía, but they are merely the starting point for a pícaro's psychology. The important consideration is that the “causes” or circumstances are used as excuses for a circumvention aimed at acquiring the resources which will bring attention and approval to one who is not favored by fortune. “Sois un gran tonto,” Guzmán says, after his unjust imprisonment in Bologna, “sois pobre, fáltaos el favor, no habéis de ser oído ni creído” (III, 263). Hence, as he later explains to Sayavedra, he is determined to be the most expert of thieves, justifying his action on the grounds that “Cada cual vive para sí, quien pilla pilla y sólo pagan los desdichados como tú” (IV, 12). And he extends his rationalization to the point of excusing his moral failure. When, imprisoned in Sevilla, he says, “Y por la mayor parte los que vienen a semejante miseria son rufianes y salteadores, gente bruta, y por maravilla cae o por desdicha grande un hombre como yo” (V, 130), he is not only admitting his sinfulness in the eyes of God; he is thinking of himself as one who might have been a respectable citizen but for unfortunate circumstances. He thus places himself on the side of those whose moral ideals he has failed to observe, seeking extenuation because of his misfortunes.

4. CLOWNISH COMPENSATION FOR INFERIORITY.

Since Guzmán assumes that he has no chance of improving his standing in society by way of personal initiative based on ideals of perseverance and uprightness, he asserts his individuality by burlesquing the “honor” which he fails to enjoy. As a defensive maneuver, he thus engages in an inversion of values. Deferring to those socially above him and governed always by motives of pleasantness and safety, he bolsters his ego in a game of competitive astuteness, of which the most prominent elements are fear, comicality, and pretense. All of these merge in an indifference to shamelessness.

Fear, the first and foremost stage in the adjustive pattern, is well illustrated when Guzmán is in the service of the cocinero. Disposed to peaceful and harmonious relations (“Siempre procuré con todos tener paz” [II, 68]), he suffers with “patience” the harsh jokes of his companions, “corrigiéndome para conservarme: que el que todo lo quiere vengar, presto quiere acabar” (II, 70); and exhibits caution mixed with respect for his superiors when dismissed by his master: “quedé tan corrido que no supe responderle, aunque pudiera y tuve harto paño. Mas no siéndome lícito por haber sido mi amo, bajé la cabeza y sin decir palabra me fuí avergonzado: que es más gloria huir de los agravios callando, que vencerlos respondiendo” (II, 95). Guzmán's timidity, which harmonizes with, if it does not actually result from his friendliness and humility in the face of a hierarchical system, is intensified by mistreatment at the hands of the more powerful. As he says when released from jail in Bologna, “Quedé tan escarmentado, tan escaldado y medroso, que de allí adelante aun del agua fría tuve miedo” (III, 270). With the ever-present necessity of money added to the natural desire for survival in a struggle for existence where he occupies an inferior position, it is easy for Guzmán to develop a hard shell of indifference to his cowardice: “¡Oh necesidad! ¡Cuánto acobardas los ánimos! … Y aunque es verdad que sutilizas el ingenio, destruyes las potencias menguando los sentidos de manera que vienen a perderse con la paciencia” (II, 178). Thus his sense of shame becomes a light burden: “Como siempre me crié sujeto a bajezas y estuve acostumbrado a oír afrentas, niño y mozo, también se me hacían fáciles de llevar cuando era hombre” (V, 97).

Guzmán, however, is too desirous of participating in the busy stream of social life to slink away in reclusive resignation. Instead, he calls upon his sense of humor in building a defense for his weakness. In this way he reacts to abusive criticism while serving the French ambassador: “Con risitas y sonsonetes me importaba llevarlo: … Y, sin tratar de la enmienda, lo tomaba como honra … por no mostrarme corrido ni obligado” (III, 109). A similar comical defense is seen in the burla played on the captain and the letrado at the ambassador's table: “¡No, no, esto no, señor capitán! Si vuestra merced se lo quiere decir, muy enhorabuena, pues tiene lengua para ello y manos para defenderlo; que no son buenas burlas ésas para un pobre mozo como yo y tan servidor del señor dotor como el que más en el mundo” (III, 129). The burla in this case displays a certain mischievous joy in the chastisement of superiors, but it also shows how one takes advantage of his inferiority by placing himself in a position where he will not be expected to defend his honor openly. In other words, the pícaro finds refuge in the safety of a clown.

This aspect of Guzmán's behavior comes to the fore periodically and at times is supplemented by a show of reckless boldness which draws for support on a fatalistic outlook upon life. While with the Cardinal in Rome, Guzmán encourages himself in his efforts to satisfy his taste for sweets by reasoning that “quien teme la muerte no goza la vida,” and “es necedad temer lo que evitar no se puede” (II, 266, 267). And later he laconically supports his determination to steal in grandiose fashion, when he says (to Sayavedra), “En resolución, morir ahorcados o comer con trompetas: que la vida en un día es acabada y la de los trabajos es muerte cotidiana” (IV, 15). He thus justifies his quest of pleasure and easy wealth and bolsters his courage by holding to the belief in a fleeting, unpredictable life of chance and circumstance. Here, too, he reflects his environment (of philosophical ideas). In what is essentially a passive resistance to environment, his “stoical” ability to absorb hard knocks is an artificial layer of feigned indifference which becomes a glorified defensive shell. It is, in brief, a comic bluff and cover for insecurity on the part of one who is a failure and who tries desperately to convince himself that he is a success.

Alemán, of course, quite clearly wants us to understand his protagonist's moral default. But Guzmán just as plainly demonstrates the psychology of one who fails socially. He himself recognizes this even in the midst of his youthful recklessness. His humble and regretful speech to the French ambassador (III, 174-176) when he withdraws from the latter's service reveals a subordinate's desire to hold his master's good will, the sad acceptance of an unhappy lot, and the admission of one's own futility. A similar admission is found when later, in a summary self-condemnation, he speaks of his greed, vainglory, hypocrisy, and pusillanimity (V, 109-112). The record which he leaves of his misspent life, while reflecting the author's own personality, must be considered the admission of a futile attempt to occupy an approved place in society by way of makeshift and bravado.¹⁷

One can point to Guzmán's youthful vitality and to certain positive aspects of his attitude: the joy of living in the immediate present, good-humored activity in a struggle for self-preservation under adverse conditions, and the mockery of vanity and hypocrisy. But these are overshadowed by the negative, defensive reactions of one who is hopelessly shackled by his environment. The psychological portrait is essentially that of a self-conscious person who hovers wistfully on the doorsteps of respectable society, timorously bowing to those who dominate the social order, aspiring by way of circumvention to what is currently regarded as the proof of success, and comically disguising his futility by reference to the lowest common denominator of social practices.

Notes

1. A noteworthy exception to the rule—and the only one of consequence that I know of—is an article by A. A. Parker, “The Psychology of the Pícaro in El Buscón,” MLR, XLII (1947), 58-69. Parker views Pablos, the protagonist of El Buscón, as an individual who overcompensates for the inferiority which arises from shame for his mother's reputation. Cf. note 17 below.

2. A. Valbuena Prat, La novela picaresca española (Madrid, 1946), pp. 14, 19 (citing Rafael Salillas, El delincuente español. Hampa (antropología picaresca) [Madrid, 1898]).

3. Fonger de Haan, An Outline of the History of the “Novela Picaresca” in Spain (The Hague, 1903), pp. 14, 18; Ludwig Pfandl, Historia de la literatura nacional española en la edad de oro (Barcelona, 1933), p. 294.

4. This is the essential thesis of J. Frutos Gómez de las Cortinas, “El antihéroe y su actitud vital (Sentido de la novela picaresca),” Cuadernos de Literatura, VII (enero-junio, 1951), 97-143.

5. Mireya Suárez, La novela picaresca y el pícaro en la literatura española (Madrid, 1926), pp. 160-163.

6. M. Bataillon, Le Roman picaresque (Paris, 1931), p. 23.

7. Ciro Espinosa, La novela picaresca y el “Guzmán de Alfarache” (Habana, 1935), pp. 21-22.

8. Mireya Suárez, pp. 152-157.

9. Américo Castro, El pensamiento de Cervantes (Madrid, 1925), p. 234.

10. Angel del Río, Historia de la literatura española (New York, 1948), I, 303.

11. Miguel Herrero, “Nueva interpretación de la novela picaresca,” RFE, XXIV (1937), 343-362.

12. Enrique Moreno Baez, Lección y sentido del “Guzmán de Alfarache” (Madrid, 1948).

13. Guzmán de Alfarache, ed. Samuel Gili y Gaya, Madrid, I (1926), 36-37.

14. There can be no doubt that in this intensely subjective novel the author not only recalls some of his own disillusioning experiences but actually shares in some degree his hero's picaresque psychology. Cf. Rodríguez Marín's suggestion that Alemán invested Guzmán with his own peculiarities “como por cariño y fineza paternal” (Discursos leídos ante la Real Academia Española, 2nd ed. [Sevilla, 1907], p. 42); Francisco A. de Icaza's assertion that Guzmán de Alfarache “no es sino un largo coloquio entre el moralista y el pícaro que Alemán lleva en sí” (Sucesos reales que parecen imaginados, de Gutierre de Cetina, Juan de la Cueva, y Mateo Alemán [Madrid, 1909], p. 167); and Valbuena Prat's reference to Alemán's “andanzas semipicarescas, desengañadas, míseras” (Historia de la literatura española [Barcelona, 1937], II, 85).

15. When only Roman numerals appear in parentheses, the reference is to “Parte,” “Libro,” and “Capítulo” of Alemán's novel.

16. When both Roman and Arabic numerals appear in parentheses, the reference is to volume and page in Gili y Gaya's edition.

17. My analysis of Guzmán de Alfarache agrees substantially with A. A. Parker's previously cited analysis of El Buscón, notably in that both emphasize one general aspect of the pícaro's psychology: the ludicrous, if tragic, efforts to compensate for social inferiority. Parker regards the “overcompensation” of Pablos as flight into a world of fantasy, a sort of madness which frees the individual from the oppression of immediate realities. T. E. May, “Good and Evil in the Buscón: A Survey,” MLR, XLV (1950), 319-335, while stressing what he considers Quevedo's “profounder interests” in the question of reality and goodness, supports the argument that Pablos is trapped—even as Don Quijote—in a world of illusion. I do not think of Guzmán's self-deception as attaining such grandiose proportions; but a laughable, pitiable exhibitionism which develops as a counter-balance to a despised standing in society is undoubtedly one of the major identifying marks of a real pícaro and may by some authors be endowed with a certain tragic grandeur. Such is the case, I believe, with José Rubén Romero's La vida inútil de Pito Pérez, a remarkably sensitive portrayal of picaresque psychology attuned to the twentieth century.