This is not a novel, really. Nor is it a diary. Occasionally it seems a treatise, or an exploration of the city, or of the soul of a young educated bourgeois. Sometimes it rears toward a charming, almost naïve, romanticism; sometimes to an almost painful ennui; at other times it is cynical, bitter, modern.
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108 pgs, 18 × 11 cm, Paperback, 2014, 9780993426803