I dreamed a better world was possible, and I refuse to wake up, which is just trading dreams. These are no windmills, I’m mad enough tilt at true giants–daring as the mosquitoes who brave my hand, and as little noticed. But at least they get a meal out of it. Ah, Sancho, my faithful, deluded Sancho! I don’t believe he’s ever read a book, and yet he thinks he knows how the world goes. But which of us carries the bruises of experience? If the world’s a game hound, which of us does it worry like a caught hare?