A lot of in-depth stuff about cock fighting interrupting a tedious, masturbatory depiction of masculinity. I was pretty excited going into is but this book sucked.

In Cockfighter, Willeford has provided for readers the fictional embodiment of testosterone. Frank Mansfield – a man with, if nothing else, unfettering conviction – is our liaison into the world of cockfighting. This unfamiliar world that Willeford scrupulously depicts is unsavory, of course – an expectation well established from the book’s title alone – but the bloodthirsty cocks (of both species involved) mean little without the hubris of man at the crux of the novel.

The real joy here is basking in Marlboro Man style, hardy southern masculinity. We get the pleasure of living vicariously through the foolhardy stumbling and eventual victory walk of our ruthless bastard of a protagonist. We get to relieve ourselves of any of our usual pragmatism and empathetic senses in favor of living out Mansfield’s stupid, stubborn exploits. Willeford not only grants the reader access to this world – every scratchy detail – but collars the reader as the underdog in doing so. When the book nears its end, we just want to win.

From Mansfield’s perspective, we eat shit but don’t take it, we silently adhere to a man’s steadfast ambition, and we ignore any other feelings that may exist (with the occasional carnal relapse). His character’s depth and insight into the character of other men, and women, should not be totally ignored (there are some deeper insights masked by antiquated misogyny), but Frank Mansfield is a champion cockfighter above all else.

For a period of suspended morality, we are too.

Sin temor a la hipérbole, una de las mejores novelas que he leído.
Un estudio de un hombre dedicado en cuerpo y alma a su pasión: las peleas de gallos.

Frank Mansfield es un personaje fascinante; ha hecho un voto de silencio para castigar la vanidad y arrogancia de su ser, aunque el orgullo algunas veces lo desborde.

Willeford es detallado y exhaustivo en la descripción de esta sub-cultura, aunque nunca se le siente didáctico. La melancolía y el humor aparecen alternativamente a lo largo de la novela.

La adaptación cinematográfica de Monte Hellman la recuerdo bastante digna, pero mientras leía el libro no dejaba de pensar que John Huston o Sam Peckinpah, pudieron haber hecho igualmente una película maravillosa basada en este material.

Es un libro sobre el placer y los sacrificios que derivan de seguir tu propio camino en la vida.

really makes you believe that the SEC's "Cockfighter of the Year Award" is the the most important thing in the world

SHOCKING: I loved a grimy, offensive, and violent takedown of masculinity! In other news, the sky continues to be blue.

Edit: okay since finishing this book I've gotten like 4 tiktoks with like <1k views in my feed of dudes in Mexico showing off their fighting fowl, and I'd just like to put it out into the algorithmic ether that I do not want to participate in or engage in this culture thank you!

When this was first published in 1962 the ancient blood sport of cockfighting was on its last legs in the US, only still legal in Louisiana and New Mexico. Yet Willeford’s novel has gained admiration and a cult status by far more than just the aficionados of the sport, and that is his huge achievement. Another, is that it has aged so well. Frank Mansfield is a smart guy in his early thirties whose one great passion is cockfighting. It takes place in Florida and Georgia, where a couple of years previously, Frank came within a whisker of winning the "little silver coin, not quite as large as a Kennedy half-dollar" - awarded to the Southern Conference Tournament's Cockfighter of the Year. ( "the ultimate achievement in one of the toughest sports in the world”). ‘Silent Frank’, as he is known, has made a self-imposed vow of silence, until he wins that “little silver medal”, and communicates by gestures and signs, irritated by finding himself on the receiving end of “personal confidences and long sad stories”. Willeford writes boldly and with sympathy for his flawed hero and the sport - the reader initially can see only see as barbarism and cruelty, a revulsion for those involved, is steadily won over by this wonderful writing; a fine example of the power of great literature.

I skipped this years ago when I was reading Willeford, assuming it was just going to be some brutal "and here's the shitty world of cockfighting" kinda book. Which it is, but only incidentally, really; it's much more like Charles Portis-- a breezy and fun southern adventure, populated with quirky characters, and told with wit and an eye to the sparkling sentence. It's a book to chuckle through-- though I wouldn't want to watch the movie. Anyway, I'm back on the Willeford again.

Peleas de gallos, honor de galleros y un protagonista muy particular para un libro difícil e imprescindible
http://entremontonesdelibros.blogspot...

Reading Cockfighter is a fairly singular experience . The milieu is very much Harry Crews' land of Southern yokels in the 60s or thereabouts, the subject cockfighting. Crews wrote about similar subjects himself in a similar vein (falconry, for example). The original publication of this book, 1962, probably just about predates Crews anyway.

What makes this unique is that the protagonist, Frank Mansfield, has taken a vow of silence and doesn't speak until (spoiler) the last page. Everyone seems to know about this, so there's still a lot of talking in his direction during the story. And there's a lot of interior monologue. Unfortunately, Frank is a dick, one of the least likeable characters in the books I've read recently.

And there's a hell of a lot of technical detail about cockfighting. I'm impressed by the enthusiasm and attention to detail on one hand, whereas on the only hand I couldn't give a fuck about the sport.

Therefore I'm left admiring but not particularly liking Willeford's novel, the fourth or fifth of his I've read.

“Cockfighter” by Charles Willeford is a great novel chronicling a time when cockfighting was a major sport in Florida and other states and countries. Frank Mansfield is pursuing the Cockfighter of the Year Award, and portrays a life and life-style long gone in which common, even admirable, behaviors are now totally unacceptable. Frank, for example, begins his story in the company of his 16 year old bed mate (he is 32) as he travels with his birds, gambling and fighting. Frank has taken a vow of silence, so is mute throughout most of the book. He has a fiance and more than one girlfriend, goes broke, gets rich, and provides great insight into the somewhat respectable sport.

During one fight, his prize cock is killed: “I put Sandspur’s head in my mouth and sucked the blood from his broken beak. I licked the feathers of his head back into place and spat as much saliva as I could into his open mouth. For the remaining seconds I had left I sucked life into his clipped comb.” Back in the fight: “On his back, Sandspur hit his opponent twice in the chest, drawing blood both times, and then Little David was above him in the air and cutting at his head with both spurs. A sharp gaff entered Sandspur’s right eye, and he died as the needle point pierced his central nervous system.” Similarly graphic sites recur throughout.

At the time, cockfighting was a legitimate business and a sport which required great skill and diligent work. There was breeding, conditioning, training, and handling in the pit. The book reveals a portion of the large body of knowledge necessary to not only be successful but to win Cockfighter of the Year. Some history is covered and the reader learns of the involvement of historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln and George Washington in the time-honored sport pitting bird against bird in a fight to the death.

Willeford, through Mansfield, depicts an activity that is either accepted or not, loved or hated. And either view was acceptable and appropriate. “Beginning as a casual onlooker, a man soon finds the action of two gamecocks battling to the death a fascinating spectacle. He either likes it or he doesn’t” Mansfield becomes partners with a successful New York businessman who gave up everything to become a professional cockfighter. Omar says, “The sight of those beautiful roosters fighting to the death, the gameness, even when mortally wounded, was an exciting and unforgettable experience.” Omar was fifty, “the age when a man begins to wonder just what in the hell has he got out of life so far anyway?”

This is a classic, well worth reading, however you feel about the deadly and violent sport.

Nobody writes like Mr. Willeford.

Charles Willeford’s Cockfighter is lurid enough to satisfy its 1962 paperback bona fides, while subliminally structured as a backwoods goof on The Odyssey. Monte Hellman’s 1974 cult film adaptation, besides giving Warren Oates the best role of his career, is scripted by Willeford, who also appears in a supporting role.