This is the saddest story I have ever heard.

Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.


All this happened, more or less.


The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.



If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me.