Two lost tales concerning the valiant knight Don Quixote de la Mancha and other such interesting things
After reading for the first time the true history of The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, originally scribed by the brilliant Arab historian Cide Hamete Benengeli, I was captivated by it and somehow began to relate it to all that happened to me in my daily life, wondering how our famous hero would interpret these things in my life and what I might learn from his good sense if he were here to dictate to me. Don Quixote did not only haunt my mind because I found its contents interesting, but also because I was expected to produce literature of my own about the text and what it said; and so like any writer with a pulse I decided to think about my future writing before its birth, allowing it to enter my every thought, and subsequently allowing my every thought to enter it—which is not to say that all my thoughts, and thus life and soul, are contained in my writings, but is to say that, like everything in my existence, it is born of my mind; and since my writings are born of my mind, they, when read carefully, provide a way (a peephole if you will) to see into my mind and everything in my existence. This immense and powerful thought can be applied to any work of writing if enough brilliant thinking and understanding is contained in the mind of the reader; and this is not to imply that I am anywhere close to being able to fully comprehend this thought that I just so casually laid down in my feeble attempt to write an interesting sentence.
So with thoughts in my head of sane madmen, wise fools, letters and arms, illusion, virtue and vice, love, compassion, death, freedom and captivity, and all the numerous other things related in that wonderful history, I visited a corner of the library I have never been to before—which is not much to say because I do not visit the library often—to sit and think about the writing that I knew I had ahead of me. Sitting at a table I imagined my final piece being read by the professor whose opinion of it would count the most, and I imagined him at first being amazed at my writing, but then I remembered that my writing would not be capable of amazing anyone because time is never plentiful enough, so I imagined him just being pleased with my work; and it is at this thought that I got up to look around at the shelved books nearby to my seat and started thumbing through them to see what I could see—because it is the way of men with too little time to look for inspiration wherever it can be found to somehow slow down time or, better yet, speed up their productivity. The genre of those books entirely consisted of the type that one refers to when he or she is lacking the skills to create a delicious meal on his or her own, the kind of book the library I was in is claimed to contain more of than any other library. There was one book, though, that stood out from the rest, so I took it from the shelf...