they are not casual: they reveal the hidalgo as a critical and unprejudiced judge. In reality, so he thinks, soldiers are sheep led to the slaughter; lordly castles are but taverns in disguise, where hospitality must be paid for by servility; giants are windmills living on wind and theft; social status is no guarantee of purity; maids are quite as lovable as their mistresses; an ignorant peasant girl, if she be honest and unspoiled, may be the inspiration of a genius that can recognize her worth; prisoners in chains upon the roadside may be more innocent than the jailors who are dragging them to the galleys.
These deliberate identifications, between beings for the most part remote and unlike, allow us to perceive what Don Quixote really thought of men. He had meditated in his loneliness, and he had come at last to know them as they are. Like all those who finally discover the nature of their fellow-beings, he had no choice save to hate them or to make fun of them. He was not a hero of the highest order; he preferred to laugh. So he decided to turn knight, that others, while thinking him their fool, might serve as the toys of his amusement.
His vengeance was successful—for it has remained undiscovered until the present day. But Don Quixote was born to be my brother, first according to the letter, now according to the spirit. He and I understand each other.
