My plan had been to read something entirely different between volumes of Don Quixote—but that’s not likely to happen. Quixote has a peculiar power, a kind of charm that is felt not just by the reader. Even those who try to save Quixote are entranced by his madness, many even envy it. Quixote leaves his quotidian existence to live romantically, to bring to life narratives that are—to him—as true as the books in the bible. The scope of his madness is captivating: its ability to transform his reality so completely, to accommodate any objection and lay waste to any reason. Its an enchantment that even takes in the book’s main narrator, the one who collects the ‘histories’ that comprise the book. For in these tales of madness, he reports greatness.

And he’s not wrong. Quixote is great. The reader is left to figure out in which way he is great. Because Quixote is a bit of a hazard: attacking innocents, freeing prisoners, robbing barbers of their basins. We would not suffer such madness today, particularly if we were the targets. But to become that mad man, to wield that invincible arm? That we might do.

So while I will not be reading any other book between volumes, I think I will be reading a different Quixote. I’d been reading the Smollet mainly, and using the Grossman as backup. But the more I reference the Grossman, the more I love her dialogue. And I appreciate a vocabulary that’s more familiar to a reader in the 21st century. Though I must say I prefer Smollet’s ‘Knight of the Rueful Countenance’ to Grossman’s ‘Knight of the Sorrowful Face.’ But such are the sacrifices we make in translations.