Once the custom of the concise, direct, and objective sentence has become entrenched, so fashionable these days that it is almost a requirement of style, it is a pleasure to sporadically plunge into the pace of other times, slow, cadenced, seeming to show that art is not made in a hurry, that attention asks for details, adds nuances, and singularizes while it is extended. Immersing in this slow pace is like escaping from modern banality, and as the periods progress we are left with the sensation of a depth that escapes this time, which has been lost in futile priorities and has become an enemy of that tranquil state that accentuates the human tendency for contemplation.
Once the Custom of the Concise…
