I wait for the chance to be asked whether I have read Don Quixote. It doesn’t come up often but when it does I look them square in the eye and passionately state “Read it? I have practically lived it!”
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever a madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution.
That is the spirit that I view my current plan, in all honesty, one of an old mad man lost in the romance of swordsmanship and combat.
Though the narrative of Don Quixote is among the most tragic of novels, the key element I have always enjoyed is that of the lengths one goes to in following ones dreams. I would hope that simply taking up a hobby is a far cry from the madness of seeing a fantastical world and living in it despite evidence of the contrary, but it is brought to mind all the same.