In his collection of prose works, Lonesome Traveler,
acclaimed Beat genera-
tion author Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) writes of a harrowing experience at
a
bullfight in Mexico. His typical unflinching attention to detail brings
to life the
horrific suffering of the bull under the indifferent eyes of those
accustomed to
and calloused by this blood ritual.
A few weeks later I got to see my first bullfight, which
I must confess is a
nouvillera, a novice fight, and not the real thing they show in the
winter which
is supposed to be so artistic. Inside it is a perfect round bowl with a
neat
circle of round dirt being harrowed and raked by expert loving rakers
like the
man who rakes second base in Yankee Stadium only this is Bite-the Dust-
Stadium.--When I sat down the bull had just come in and the orchestra
was
sitting down again.--Fine embroidered clothes tightly fitted to boys
behind a
fence.--Solemn they were, as a big beautiful shiny black bull rushed out
gallumphing from a corner I hadn’t looked, where he’d been apparently
mooing for help, black nostrils and big white eyes and outspread horns,
all
chest no belly, stove polish thin legs seeking to drive the earth down
with all
that locomotive weight above--some people sniggered--bull galloped and
flashed, you saw the riddled up muscle holes in his perfect prize skin.
--Matador stepped out and invited and the bull charged and slammed in,
matador sneered his cape, let pass the horns by his loins a foot or two,
got
the bull revolved around the cape, and walked away like a Grandee--and
stood
his back to the dumb perfect bull who didn’t charge like in "Blood and
Sand"
and lift Senor Grandee into the upper deck.
Then business got underway. Out comes the old pirate
horse with patch on
eye, picador KNIGHT aboard with a lance, to come and a few slivers of
steel
in the bull’s shoulderblade who responds by trying to lift the horse but
the
horse is mailed (thank God)--historical and crazy scene except suddenly
you
realize the picador has started the bull on his interminable bleeding.
The
blinding of the poor bull in mindless vertigo is committed by the brave
bowlegged
little dartman carrying two darts with a ribbon, here he comes head-on
at the
bull, the bull head-on for him, wham, no head-on crash for the dart man
has
stung with dart and darted away before you can say boo (& I did say
boo),
because a bull is hard to dodge? Good enough, but the darts now have the
bull streaming with blood like Marlowe’s Christ in the heavens.--An old
matador
comes out and tests the bull with a few capes’ turn then another set of
darts,
a battleflag now shining down the living breathing suffering bull’s side
and
everybody glad.
--And now the bull’s charge is just a stagger and so now
the serious hero
matador comes out for the kill as the orchestra goes one boom-lick on
bass
drum, its gets quiet like a cloud passing over the sun, you hear a
drunkard’s
bottle smash a mile away in the cruel Spanish green aromatic
countryside--
children pause over tortas--the bull stands in the sun head-bowed,
panting
for life, his sides actually flapping against his ribs, his shoulders
barbed like
San Sebastian.--The careful footed matador youth, brave enough in his
own
right, approached and curses and the bull rolls around and comes
stoggling
on wobbly feet at the red cape, dives in with blood streaming
everywhichway
and the boy just accommodates him through the he imaginary hoop and
circles and hangs on tiptoe knock-kneed. And Lord, I didn't want to see
his
smooth tight belly ranted by no horn.--He rippled his cape again at the
bull
who just stood there thinking "Oh why can’t I go home?" and the matador
moved closer and now the animal bunched tired legs to run but one leg
slipped throwing up a cloud of dust.--But he dove in and flounced off to
rest.
--The matador draped his sword and called the humbled bull with glazed
eyes.
--The bull pricked his ears and didn’t move.--The matador’s whole body
stiffened like a board that shakes under the trample of many feet--a
muscle
showed in his stocking.--Bull plunged a feeble three feet and turned in
dust
and the matador arched his back in front of him like a man leaning over
a hot
stove to reach for something on the other side and flipped his sword a
yard
deep into the bull’s shoulderblade separation.--Matador walked one way,
bull
the other with sword to hilt and staggered, started to run looked up
with human
surprise at the sky & sun, and then gargled--O go see it folks!--He
threw up
ten gallons of blood in the air and it splashed all over--he fell on his
knees
choking on his own blood and spewed and twisted his neck around and
suddenly got floppy doll and his head blammed flat.--He still wasn’t
dead, an
extra idiot rushed out and knifed him with a wren-like dagger in the
neck nerve
and still the bull dug the sides of his poor mouth in the sand and
chewed old
blood.--His eyes! O his eyes!--Idiots sniggered because the dagger did
this,
as though it would not.--A team of hysterical horses were rushed out to
chain
and rag the bull away, they galloped off but the chain broke and the
bull slid
in dust like a dead fly kicked unconsciously with a foot.--Off, off with
him!
--He’s gone, white eyes staring the last thing you see.--Next
bull!--First the
old boys shovel blood in a wheelbarrow and rush off with it. The quiet
raker
returns with his rake--"Ole!," girls throwing flowers at the
animal-murder in
the fine britches.--And I saw how everybody dies and nobody’s going to
care, I felt how awful it is to live just so you can die like a bull
trapped in a
screaming human ring.--
Jai Alai, Mexico, Jai Alai!
For More Information Contact
Animal Emancipation, Inc.
5632 Van Nuys Boulevard, Suite 50
Van Nuys, California 91401-4602
(805) 655-5735/(310) 358-5974
E-Mail: aeinc@mainnet.com
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