Too, too funny--discovered last night, in this dithyramb to violent death, the Spanish for a bullfighter's cape is--capote.
In this work, the first non-fiction book by a major novelist one believes one has ever read, Hemingway carries his let's-keep-it-simple aesthetic to the point aesthetics are thrown out the window entirely and our peripatetic author plunges into the world of fact and fact alone, his journalistic tendency having overruled his artistic, and it is fascinating, the art/sport of bullfighting one of the craziest, cruelest, most surreal activities, with moments of overpowering beauty, in which humanity has ever become engaged--imagine an NFL game where the captain of the losing team changes into a tuxedo and is executed by a sword-thrust to the heart to end the day.
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