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In a place in La Mancha, whose name I do not want to remember, not long ago there lived a nobleman of those with a lance in a shipyard, an old shield, a skinny hack and a greyhound for runner.

A pot of something more cow than mutton, salpicón most nights, duels and brokenness on Saturdays, lantils on Fridays, some added palomino on Sundays, consumed the three parts of his hacienda.

The rest of her ended in a veiled tunic, fleece leggings for parties, with her slippers of the same, and on weekdays she honored herself with her finest fleece.

He had in his house a mistress who was over forty, and a niece who was not quite twenty, and a farm boy who saddled the hack as he took the pruning shear.

The age of our hidalgo bordered on fifty years; He was of a strong complexion, dry of flesh, gaunt of face, a great early riser and a lover of hunting.

They mean that he had the nickname of Quijada, or Quesada, that in this there is some difference in the authors who write about this case; although by credible conjectures it is possible to understand that his name was Quijana.

But this matters little to our story: it is enough that in his narration not one point of the truth is left out.
It is, then, to know that this nobleman, the moments that he was idle -which were the most of the year-, he gave himself to read books of chivalry, with such fondness and pleasure that he almost forgot the exercise of hunting, and even the administration of his estate; His curiosity and folly in this reached such a point that he sold many hanegas of farmland to buy books of chivalry to read, and thus he took home as many of them as possible.