We can mobilize sophistication and rhetoric, summon art and literature, solicit a professor emeritus at the École Normale Supérieure, even the chaplain of the arenas of Nîmes who philosophizes at his hours, if not a nice skewer of the Germanopratine left, namely the camp of good never far from wokism, actors and filmmakers, painters and lawyers, all of court, bullfighting remains the ancestral device that allows to enjoy the suffering and death inflicted by man to an animal.
Final point.
Hemingway or Montherlant, Goya or Picasso, Leiris or Bataille, Professor Tartentpion reader Kant or the theologian Duchemol exegete of Saint Augustine change nothing: ultimately, those who find themselves in an arena to seek and find reasons to love a man whose job is to make a bull suffer, to push devilish "ole" when the beast is attacked, to applaud when it is bled, to enjoy when it is killed, to experience orgasm when...
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