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-
XXIV
I HAVE discovered the secret of that style. In its insistent volubility the line of that architecture continued for so long to repeat that same incomprehensible cliché that I came to understand that insidious cypher, that solicitous eye, that ticklish mystiphication. It was indeed a too transparent masquerade. In those elaborate and mobile lines, in their exaggerated refinement, there was some too sharp paprika, some surfeit of hot piquancy; there was something nimble, fervent and too starkly gesticulatory, something, in a word, coloured, colonial, casting a knowing look... There it is: that style had something stupendously repulsive at the bottom of it — it was licentious, ingenious, tropical, and stupendously cynical.
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