lived in the village of La Mancha
in Spain an old gentleman of few worldly possessions but many books,
who was given to a hardy and adventurous way of life, and who beguiled
his spare time by reading the many tales of chivalry and knighthood
that were in his possession.

This old gentleman was a tall, gaunt man of about fifty, with a
lantern jaw and straggling gray hair, and eyes that had a sparkle of
madness in them. His surname was Quixada or Quesada, and though not
rich, he was well known to the country folk and had some reputation in
the community where he lived.

In his younger days he was a great sportsman and used to get up before
the sun to follow his favorite pursuits of hunting and hawking, but as
he grew older he spent almost all his time in reading books on
chivalry and knighthood with which his library was stocked; and at
last he grew so fond of these books that he forgot to follow the
hounds or even to look after his property, but spent all his time in
his library, mulling over the famous deeds and love affairs of knights
who conquered dragons and vanquished wicked enchanters.

At the time when Quesada lived, Spain was saturated with this sort of
literature, and everybody wasted much time in reading books which had no
merit or value of any kind and which were full of the most ridiculous and
impossible adventures. On the whole they were the most utter rubbish that
it was possible to print. They told about impossible deeds in the most
impossible language, and were filled with ambitious sentences that meant
nothing under the sun. Senor Quesada spent hours racking his brains to
puzzle out the meaning of something like this:

"The reason of the unreason with which my reason is
afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur
at your beauty."

Or again:

"The high heavens that of your divinity divinely fortify
you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert
your greatness deserves."

Poor Senor Quesada could not understand these sentences. Who could? No
man in his right mind certainly, it would have taken a madman to read
any real meaning into them. And he wasted so much time in puzzling
over them that at last he became quite mad and the words in the books
would appear on the walls of his room, written in letters of fire,
with so bright a light that they prevented him from sleeping. From
trying to read a meaning into things that had no meaning whatever,
Sen