Cervantes wrote the book that invented the modern novel, but he also wrote something far more radical: a story about what happens when one man's imagination becomes so vivid it reshapes reality around him. Don Quixote, a middle-aged gentleman from La Mancha, reads so many chivalric romances that he decides to become a knight-errant himself. He renames himself, arms himself with rusty armor, and rides out on his ancient horse Rocinante to fight for honor and his lady Dulcinea. His squire Sancho Panza follows, a earthy farmer who believes in the magic of the quest even as he doubts his master's sanity. Together they tilt at windmills, free convicted criminals, and wander through a Spain that sees only a madman. Yet here is the novel's unsettling trick: Don Quixote's delusions often expose truths the sensible world ignores. Four centuries later, we still recognize him. We all have our windmills.
