This really struck a chord with me. The embarrassment you describe feels less about Hemingway or sherry per se, and more about the awkwardness of carrying old passions into a world that keeps rebranding taste as trend. Reading you on Death in the Afternoon reminded me that some things don’t age well, but others age into a strange kind of honesty. Maybe that’s what unnerves us: not that sherry or bullfighting are passé, but that they force us to face our own unfashionable persistence.
This really struck a chord with me. The embarrassment you describe feels less about Hemingway or sherry per se, and more about the awkwardness of carrying old passions into a world that keeps rebranding taste as trend. Reading you on Death in the Afternoon reminded me that some things don’t age well, but others age into a strange kind of honesty. Maybe that’s what unnerves us: not that sherry or bullfighting are passé, but that they force us to face our own unfashionable persistence.
This is a great point, and is probably said way better than I was fishing around for in the essay!