The Running Picador

October 7, 2014 5:10 PM

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It is unfortunately no longer possible to take bullfighting as an order of romance any more serious than say, the return of the player piano or the raccoon coat. Like the new bar that just opened on Hudson St. calling itself The Speakeasy, it's just another camp of the 1920s. But the ambience dies hard. To imagine driving to a fiesta along the hot, dusty roads from Barcelona to Cordoba in a big, ancient, hired Rolls with yellow basket-weave side panels with a girl you no longer love is to feel again the old Hemingway Effect -- an out-of-date artifact that had once led me, by routes of the imagination too embarrassing to name here, to marriage, writing and a half-ass part in a war.

None of this is said pour epater les aficionados; certainly, I'm still a sucker for the whole gaudy number myself. Bullfight posters, the strange, ejaculated cries of flamenco singers, that trumpet passage they play in movies when the bull runs into the ring, eating late at night and alone in Spanis...

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