The world, we can philosophically conclude, is everything that is a mess.
There is a ball, yes there is a ball; but there is, above all else, an occult disposition.
Restless bewilderment, it seems, is our only recourse, our only liberty.
The Geography of Hell is well known.
Clarke proposes that we play a parlour game, which he calls Smash that Image!
My book was called The Roots of Ornament, but I see now that it should have been called The Rootlessness of Ornament.
We are discussing fortification. More precisely, I am discussing fortification.
There is, if we are honest, a chorographical drift in all of us.
The five of us might suddenly be adrift in a lifeboat, having just cast lots to see who eats whom.
In time, the animating principle of the city will be expressed in an evolved monstrosity…
…it is a system, let us allow, that is closer to love than we generally care to acknowledge.
Under certain conditions — in a garden, in the Ideal City, in a garden of the Ideal City — objects of knowledge achieve weightlessness.
The accidents of life are life, in other words.
Routines are composed of sub-routines, which are in turn composed of habits.
Or was I—a deeper or possible more pragmatic fear—merely a clause or a term in someone else’s contract?