If I could have made this enough of a book it would have had everything in it. The Prado, looking like some big American college building, with sprinklers watering the grass early in the bright Madrid summer morning; the bare white mud hills looking across Carabanchel; days on the train in August with the blinds pulled down on the side against the sun and the wind blowing them; chaff blown against the car in the wind from the hard earthen threshing floors; the odour of grain and the stone windmills.  It would have had the change when you leave the green country behind at Alsasua; it would have had Burgos far across the plain and eating the cheese later up in the room; it would have had the boy taking the wicker-bound jugs of wine on the train as samples; his first trip to Madrid and opening them in enthusiasm and they all got drunk including the pair of Guardia Civil …

From “Death in the Afternoon,” by Ernest Hemingway

This paragraph is part of the magnificent epilogue of “Death in the Afternoon,” by Ernest Hemingway, where he laments the limitations of any book.  The writer goes on to describe his experiences in Spain, using simple yet unsurpassable prose. The beauty of his writing probably reaches its maximum splendor in this masterpiece. Hemingway loved Spain and had a passion for bullfighting—its way of life, its culture, its tragedy, its fanaticism, its devotion, its tradition, and its art, which surrounds this spectacle, the subject of controversy even in Spain.

The following is a paragraph from “Plaza de Toros,” one of the tales of my book “The Silver Teacup.”

“He’s badly wounded,” the bullfight surgeon says. “The horn penetrated his lung. An ambulance has taken him to Residencia Zamacola. I couldn’t do anything for him here.”

I am afraid to ask him whether he thinks Manolo will make it. I go out of the bullring. I can hear the spectators’ applause and cheers for the matadors from several blocks away. I press ahead. The main street is almost deserted. A couple of ladies in black wait for a tram.  The sun swelters overhead while the sea breeze has died down as if grieving over the tragedy.  I think of how some people have short memories, of how expendable a young life might be in their view …