“O Don Quixote, wise as thou art brave,La Mancha's splendor and of Spain the star!To thee I say that if the peerless maid,Dulcinea del Toboso, is to be restoredto the state that was once hers, it needs must bethat thy squire Sancho take on his bared behind,those sturdy buttocks, must consent to takethree thousand lashes and three hundred more,and well laid on, that they may sting and smart;for those are the authors of her woehave thus resolved, and that is why I've come,This, gentles, is the word I bring to you.”

“Those in Argentina, Mexico and Peru, Colombia and the Caribbean Bear La Mancha and Quixote in their heartsFor he is an ultimate and overlooked Don Juan.”

“The fear thou art in, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "prevents thee from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to derange the senses and make things appear different from what they are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give my aid;" and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt.”

“Don Quixote is not just Don Quixote; La Mancha is not just geography; It is our personal territory—Terra Nostra.”

“The Author To Her BookThou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,Who after birth did'st by my side remain,Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,Who thee abroad exposed to public view,Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).At thy return my blushing was not small,My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.I cast thee by as one unfit for light,The visage was so irksome in my sight,Yet being mine own, at length affection wouldThy blemishes amend, if so I could.I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.In better dress to trim thee was my mind,But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come,And take thy way where yet thou art not known.If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;And for thy mother, she alas is poor,Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.”

“A man on a quest. A Don Quixote searching for his Dulcinea. But keep in mind my good friend, Don Quixote never found his Dulcinea, did he? He did not. There sometimes isn’t much difference between a knight’s quest and a fool’s errand.”