The patience of a wildcat and the blood is more precious than oil. This element is burning carbon, lava oozing from his humped back, pouring over the obsidian of his coat. His song is a huff and a billow. The tilted head is curious. The gilded eye is furious, reflecting the sun and the hunger of the crowd. Loud cries lift the matador higher, give her the appetite to kill. There is blood. There is sand. And there is the staggering beast; it is us, drunk on this violence. Humanity sits just as comfortably in a bullring as in a cathedral. As long as sacrifice is demonstrated, as long as blood is spilled, there will be an audience, rapt in ritual and mythology.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
Showing posts with label Bullfight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bullfight. Show all posts
12 September 2010
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