"You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote."
Truer words never spoken! (August 8, 2012). At 58% and slogging forward, the experience of reading Don Quixote has distilled itself into a titanic battle against literary intertia. I want to stop; everything within me cries out to stop; I cannot stop.
Neither can Don Quixote, who will be in the middle of speechifying -actually, truth be told, he'll be long past what you thought must necessarily comprise the middle of his discourse, because if it weren't the middle, but were more toward the front end of things, the dude would still be standing there speechifying as the skyscrapers tumble and the clouds mushroom and the nukes are deployed- he'll be in the middle of speechifying, closing in, only to duck around a rhetorical corner and emerge, like a first-class featherweight, primed for more.
It's rather impressive, truth be told. Watching someone extend themselves beyond the outer reaches of your imagination is galvanizing. Think of the Olympics, of the Curiosity Rover, of yourself at the end of a couch-to-5K program. It is satisfying to have your limits belied
It's also monumentally soporific. They should sell this thing to insomniacs.