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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Ernest Hemingway

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“Brett’s rather cut up. But she loves looking after people. That’s how we came to go off together. She was looking after me.”

 

“Try it. You can’t tell; maybe this is the one that gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this señor!”

 

“I’m not worried about how I’ll stand it. I’m only afraid I may be bored,” Cohn said.

 

The first bull was Belmonte’s. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte’s great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte.

 

They were all standing outside the chapel where San Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in, leaving a guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced in them standing beside their resting frames, and the dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the crowd. We started inside and there was a smell of incense and people filing back into the church, but Brett was stopped just inside the door because she had no hat, so we went out again and along the street that ran back from the chapel into town. The street was lined on both sides with people keeping their place at the curb for the return of the procession. Some dancers formed a circle around Brett and started to dance. They wore big wreaths of white garlics around their necks. They took Bill and me by the arms and put us in the circle. Bill started to dance, too. They were all chanting. Brett wanted to dance but they did not want her to. They wanted her as an image to dance around. When the song ended with the sharp riau-riau! they rushed us into a wine-shop.

 

'I said it honestly,' the Gran Maestro said. 'We can make or fabricar rognons grilled with champignons dug by people I know. Or, raised in damp cellars. There can be an omelet with truffles dug by pigs of distinction. There can be real Canadian bacon from maybe Canada, even.'

 

'You're God-damned right it's bad,' the driver said and added, 'sir'.

 

They had been addressed before by d'Annunzio after victories, and before defeats, and they knew what they should shout if there was any pause by an orator.

 

He was at home in his small house in Treviso, close to the fast-flowing river under the old walls. The weeds waved in the current and the fish hung in the shelter of the weeds and rose to insects that touched the water in the dusk. He was at home, too, in all operations that did not involve more than a company and understood them as clearly as he understood the proper serving of a small dining-room; or a large dining-room.

 

'We just raise the glass to each other and, if you wish, we can touch the edges.'

 

'No, thank you,' said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

 

The matador who was ill was careful never to show it and was meticulous about eating a little of all the dishes that were

 

There was no need of that. Nick, standing in the- door of the kitchen, h*ad a good view of the upper bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand, tipped the Indian's head back.

 

'There ought to be a system for wetting these things,' he said. 'I shall wet this one in the river.' He started up the bank.

 

part0003 'You don't need it.'

 

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