Sanson Carrasco: Why are you poets so fascinated with madmen? Cervantes: We have much in common. Sanson Carrasco: You both turn your backs on life. Cervantes: We both select from life. Sanson Carrasco: A man has to come to terms with life as it is. Cervantes: Life as it is. I've lived for over 40 years and I've seen life as it is. Pain. Misery. Cruelty beyond belief. I've heard all the voices of God's noblest creature. Moans from bundles of filth in the street. I've been a soldier and a slave. I've seen my comrades fall in battle or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them at the last moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words, only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning "Why?" I do not think they were asking why they were dying, but why they had ever lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness; To surrender dreams this may be madness; to seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! And maddest of all - to see life as it is and not as it should be!
The Duke: No mention of knight errantry. Sancho Panza: Oh no. One does not speak of the rope in the house of the hanged...proverb.
As the saying goes. Whether the stone hits the pitcher or the pitcher hits the stone, it's going to be bad for the pitcher.
An idealist? Well I've never had the courage to believe in nothing.
Sanson Carrasco: Why are you poets so fascinated with madmen?
Cervantes: We have much in common.
Sanson Carrasco: You both turn your backs on life.
Cervantes: We both select from life.
Sanson Carrasco: A man has to come to terms with life as it is.
Cervantes: Life as it is. I've lived for over 40 years and I've seen life as it is. Pain. Misery. Cruelty beyond belief. I've heard all the voices of God's noblest creature. Moans from bundles of filth in the street. I've been a soldier and a slave. I've seen my comrades fall in battle or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them at the last moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words, only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning "Why?" I do not think they were asking why they were dying, but why they had ever lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness; To surrender dreams this may be madness; to seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! And maddest of all - to see life as it is and not as it should be!
