But I chose this. I chose to be undermined: why?
Because I too was afraid. Because secretly I too
thought the stories were too good to be true,
that there was a dark vein running through the marble.
I wanted a scoffer at my side, someone to explode
my extravagance of cheer, Panza to my Quixote.
And so we have traveled, decades in company:
I supply the hope, he the despair. It works
in its fashion. But there are times,
on the windswept crest of the hill, overlooking
the camp of our enemies, when I wonder,
have I chosen wisely? Would it have been better
to have a squire who believed my foolishness,
and handed me my lance with shining eyes?
I pronounce Quixote in the provincial American fashion, kee-YO-tee.
ReplyDeleteI like kee-HO-tay myself. (Am still trying to believe that the French pronounce Don Juan as Don Zhuwan.)
ReplyDeleteI often want to have things both ways, be the idealist and the cynic. Thankfully the sarcasm of 14-16 has never been surpassed.