I had a friend once.
He was a bullfighter. A slender man with sad eyes, a sad smile and a long deep scar on his face. There were other scars, but you only saw the one on his face.
His name was Manuel. He was known as Manolete. But I called him Manolo, and he liked that, because that's what his mother, Do�a Angustias, called him when he was a boy and lived in a poor house, on a poor street, in a rich land.
Manolete was killed by a Miura bull, the fiercest animal known to man, a breed of wild bulls with an inbred hatred for all living things.
A Miura bull killed Manolete's granduncle, Pepete, April 20, 1862. A Miura bull killed Espartero, May 27, 1894. A Miura killed Llusio in Madrid, Manuel Sanchez in Sevilla, Domingo del Campo in Barcelona, Pedro Carre�o in �cija.
And in Linares on Aug. 29, 1947, a Miura bull killed Manolete.
His death turned Spain into a nation of mourners; everybody wept.
The country was a solemn funeral procession of genuine grief and unashamed tears, no practiced melancholy or mock hysteria, just a long trail of sadness.
Manolete dominated bulls with a graceful stoic elegance.
He was a proud man with quiet dignity.
One Spanish word is necessary.
Pundonor. Without pundonor you are nothing in the bullring, or with a woman, or with yourself.
Manolete had it, and died of it.