Animals are closer than human beings to the primeval eternal forces of cosmic creation and destruction. They are closer to God. They are His true angels and archangels.

Ancient manly races used to make the Bull the center of their cult worship. Between its horns, they wedged the sun. And on its mighty testicles they hung all their hopes. At the great festivals, they grappled with it. The chief priest was the bullfighter, and the knife his ceremonial instrument—the strongest exorcism, for not even God could oppose it. And when the bull bellowed and dropped, the devotees rushed out and began devouring the raw flesh. Such was this primitive Holy Communion, with real flesh and real blood.

The moment I set foot on Spanish soil, I felt the breath of the sacred bull in the air. Occasionally I used to watch it stalking through the noisy streets, in among the painted ladies and the shouting men. It was silent, shiny, a genuine god, its dark eyes spattered with blood. I used to gaze at the crowds moving toward its temple. They were gay, impatient, excited, on their way to a rite as old as time … And then, in the newspapers, I would read the outcome of the sacred rite, this bloody pantomime between God and man.

At first I found it a bit painful to inhale this tangy air of the ritual. I used to stand outside the sanctuaries, not daring to cross the threshold. I felt I wasn’t up to it yet, for I did not want to confront the bullfight as a mere spectacle. I longed to be able to arouse inside myself an age-old emotion, so that thousands of years hereafter, my blood could recall how it was once stirred and blessed through this violent contact with God.

Little by little, I was getting closer to my goal. Spain breathed courage into my heart. I saw the crucified Christs with their thick clots of blood, and my eyes grew accustomed to them.