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
ONCE I saw a stage-magician. He stood on the stage, slim and visible from all sides, flourishing a top hat, disclosing its totally empty and white bottom. And, having in this way indemnified his art beyond all doubt against suspicion of a trickster’s manipulation, he traced his tangled magic sign in the air with a wand, and with a down-stroke, with exaggerated precision and vigour, he immediately began to pull ribbons of paper from the hat — colourful ribbons by the cubit, by the yard, and at last by the kilometre. The room filled up with that coloured, rustling mass, was illuminated by that hundredfold propagation, that light and foaming tissue-paper in its shining accumulation — and he would not cease pulling out that never-ending stream, despite the terrified voices full of rapturous protest, the ecstatic shouts and the fitful shrieks, until at last it was clear that it was not truly he who was providing this miracle, that he was not drawing that abundance from his own reserves, but that divine wellsprings were clearly open to him, not according to human measures or reckonings.
Somebody on that occasion, predestined to grasp the more profound meaning of that demonstration, went home pensive and internally dazzled, deeply penetrated by the truth that had entered him: God is innumerous...
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