How Not to Write a Book

“I have a nausea,” said Sancho Panza, “and I believe I must write a book.”

“I can think of no nausea so potent as to fit thee to write a book,” said Don Quixote, “and, since thou art my squire, I bid thee to rein in thine ass, and ride behind the heels of my steed, as a squire should.”

So Sancho rained in his ass, and took his place behind his master’s horse, Rozinante, and on they went in single file over the hills.

But then Sancho pommelled his ass with his heels, and once more drew up beside Don Quixote.

“My lord,” he said, “the nausea is worse and I see no way but to write a book.”

“If it be worse,” said Don Quixote, “then I recommend to thee a nip of the Balsamum, which already thou hast found so serviceable. And again I bid thee drop back behind the heels of Rozinante.”

Once again Sancho obeyed, but before they had proceeded half a league he kicked his donkey and was once more abreast of his master.

“My lord, this my nausea is not such as you think, for it overwhelms not only my body but my mind. I have become as one who sees no good in anything. The words of the Etruscan poet — There is no go, echo through my bones. In such a plight there is nothing left but to write a book.”

At this Don Quixote raised the visor of his helm and stared at the squire as a clam stares out of the opening of its clam-shell. “I have heard of such a plight, and of the masterpieces which in this novissino die it engenders, but it may well be that such a plight is not thine. I would test thee. See’st thou yon object in the pasture? What woulds’t thou say it was?”

“Indeed, it is a tree.”

“If it is a tree to thee, then never cans’t thou write a book.”

“But it is a very sorry tree.”

“No matter, thou hast called it a tree.”

“My lord, I ask you to hear me. If I said it was a tree, it was but a slip of the tongue. My mind knows it is no tree. It is but a stick of papier-maché to which have been tied slivers of tin slicked over with a green varnish.”

“I confess thou soundest like a writer,” said Don Quixote, “but it may be that thou art becoming a holy man.”

“I hope not,” said Sancho, “for a holy man fills not his pocket, but a writer does.”

“Yet thou resemblest holy men, for they show a contempt for what other men delight in. They spurn what is temporary for the sake of what is eternal. Mayhap for heaven thou art giving up the world.”

“What world?” exclaimed Sancho.

“Why, the world about thee.”

“I see no world,” said Sancho, “unless you mean the vile nothingness which by courtesy I might call refuse.”

“I believe thou art ready to write a book,” said Don Quixote, and he slipped from his horse, while Sancho following his example, let his ass run out from between his legs.

Now there happened to stand beside the road a grove of cork-oaks and beech-trees, and above the grove, the sun, usually so thrifty was pouring down a treasure of gold so lavishly, that it seemed as if the sun in its journies had never visited Scotland. And amid the trees innumerable birds were chanting so melodiously that the leaves, not to be outdone, were rustling with a delicious accompaniment.

“In this grove,” said Don Quixote, “we may find a proper place in which thou cans’t compose thy masterpiece.”

“One waste-land is as good as another,” said Sancho.

So down they sat in their paradise.

“And now,” said Sancho, “you can write down what I dictate, for to learn letters has never been my distraction.”

“Will it take long?” asked the Knight.

“It may well do so,” said Sancho. “But you can console yourself that if my book be the success that I am sure it will be, it will be the last book ever to be written. It is a book to end all books.”

“Then there is a purpose in writing this book,” said Don Quixote.

“That there is,” said Sancho.

(This article was originally published in From the Housetops, Volume III, No.1, September, 1948.)