Don Quixote is a beautiful mind. I envy, desire and wish to aspire to such perfect delusion. His world is the absolute sublime. When he recieves the ever-approaching effect of his constantly deficient attempts at true chivalrous acts, he misconcieves the causes of his failure as the works of some vendettously malicous necromancer that turns giants to windmills and armies into dust. He does not, however see inn turn to castle through any sort of phasmagorical, selectively attributing any illusion that benefits his version of reality as fact, not a mystical enchantment.
A real-world comparison would be the arrival of Spanish ships on foreign ports. Circumstantially, we are told that when the first huge boats and galleons arrived, the natives where supposedly unable to see them for their minds could not comprehend something so unknown, so dislike anything they knew of in their world. Don's sheer will to live in so elevated an era, simply refuses, or perhaps cannot process the possibility for reality to be anything less.
A real-world comparison would be the arrival of Spanish ships on foreign ports. Circumstantially, we are told that when the first huge boats and galleons arrived, the natives where supposedly unable to see them for their minds could not comprehend something so unknown, so dislike anything they knew of in their world. Don's sheer will to live in so elevated an era, simply refuses, or perhaps cannot process the possibility for reality to be anything less.
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