Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: -IV- -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- -IX- (X) -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: -XXVIII- -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- -XXXII- -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- -XXXV- -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
X
I ONCE saw a stage magician. He stood on the stage, slim and visible from all sides, flourishing his top hat, disclosing its totally empty and white bottom. Having in this way indemnified his art above all doubt against suspicion of a trickster’s manipulations, he traced his tangled magic sign in the air with a wand. And immediately he began, with a down-stroke, with exaggerated precision and vigour, to pull ribbons of paper from the hat, colourful ribbons by the cubit, by the yard, and in the end by the kilometre. The room filled up with that coloured, rustling mass; it was illuminated by that hundredfold propagation, that shining accumulation of light and foaming tissue-paper. And he would not desist from pulling out that never-ending stream, despite the terrified voices full of rapturous protest, the ecstatic shouts and fitful shrieks — until at last it was as plain as day that none of this was costing him any effort, that it was not his own reserves that he drew that abundance from, but quite simply that divine wellsprings had opened up to him, not in accordance with human measures or reckonings.
Someone on that occasion, someone predestined to grasp the more profound meaning of that demonstration, went home pensive and internally shocked, deeply penetrated by the truth that had entered him: God is innumerous...
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