A succession of tales where characters, many of whom are both somber and ridiculous, have the sinews of their will cut by the knife of fate, or desire. Saerman occasionally seems to be arguing that these phenomena come down to one and the same thing; adducing sentiment as proof. Just as the carbon found in diamonds comes from the living and the dead alike, so dreams, lapses of thought, involuntary visions and sheer boredom are indiscriminately transformed into the gemstone of the special kind of feeling Saerman capitalizes on – a feeling which, if it had a name, would be love of fate. "Ave fatum, gratia vidum" is the prayer that resurfaces again and again in this volume, a prayer that asks for no intercession, no screen between oneself and one’s destiny. Although the characters are curiously individuated, the center stage in this book is occupied by Saerman’s lyrical voice, shot through and through with mystical pain, and the same stubbornly immature longing which characterized Leopardi’s "rage to live" in this desert we call the world.
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