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We the people seem to have the freest book trade in the world. Certainly we have the biggest. Cruise the mighty Amazon, and you will see so many books for sale in the United States today as would require more than four hundred miles of shelving to display them—a bookshelf that would stretch from Boston’s Old North Church to Fort McHenry in South Baltimore.

Surely that huge catalog is proof of our extraordinary freedom of expression: The US government does not ban books, because the First Amendment won’t allow it. While books are widely banned in states like China and Iran, no book may be forbidden by the US government at any level (although the CIA censors books by former officers). Where books are banned in the United States, the censors tend to be private organizations—church groups, school boards, and other local (busy)bodies roused to purify the public schools or libraries nearby.

Despite such local prohibitions, we can surely find any book we want. After all, it’s easy to locate those hot works that once were banned by the government as too “obscene” to sell, or mail, until the courts ruled otherwise on First Amendment grounds—Fanny Hill, Howl, Naked Lunch. We also have no trouble finding books banned here and there as “antifamily,” “Satanic,” “racist,” and/or “filthy,” from Huckleberry Finn to Heather Has Two Mommies to the Harry Potter series, just to name a few.

And yet, the fact that those bold books are all in print, and widely read, does not mean that we have the freest book trade in the world. On the contrary: For over half a century, America’s vast literary culture has been disparately policed, and imperceptibly contained, by state and corporate entities well placed and perfectly equipped to wipe out wayward writings. Their ad hoc suppressions through the years have been far more effectual than those quixotic bans imposed on classics like The Catcher in the Rye and Fahrenheit 451. For every one of those bestsellers scandalously purged from some provincial school curriculum, there are many others (we can’t know how many) that have been so thoroughly erased that few of us, if any, can remember them, or have ever heard of them.

How have all those books (to quote George Orwell) “dropped into the memory hole” in these United States? As America does not ban books, other means—less evident, and so less controversial—have been deployed to vaporize them. Some almost never made it into print, as publishers were privately warned off them from on high, either on the grounds of “national security” or with blunt threats of endless corporate litigation. Other books were signed enthusiastically—then “dumped,” as their own publishers mysteriously failed to market them, or even properly distribute them. But it has mainly been the press that stamps out inconvenient books, either by ignoring them, or—most often—laughing them off as “conspiracy theory,” despite their soundness (or because of it).

Once out of print, those books are gone. Even if some few of us have not forgotten them, and one might find used copies here and there, these books have disappeared. Missing from the shelves and never mentioned in the press (and seldom mentioned even in our schools), each book thus neutralized might just as well have been destroyed en masse—or never written in the first place, for all their contribution to the public good.

The purpose of this series is to bring such vanished books to life—first life for those that never saw the light of day, or barely did, and second life for those that got some notice, or even made a splash, then slipped too quickly out of print, and out of mind.

These books, by and large, were made to disappear, or were hastily forgotten, not because they were too lewd, heretical, or unpatriotic for some touchy group of citizens. These books sank without a trace, or faded fast, because they tell the sort of truths that Madison and Jefferson believed our Constitution should protect—truths that the people have the right to know, and needs to know, about our government and other powers that keep us in the dark.

Thus the works on our Forbidden Bookshelf shed new light—for most of us, it’s still new light—on the most troubling trends and episodes in US history, especially since World War II: America’s broad use of former Nazis and ex-Fascists in the Cold War; the Kennedy assassinations, and the murders of Martin Luther King Jr., Orlando Letelier, George Polk, and Paul Wellstone; Ronald Reagan’s Mafia connections, Richard Nixon’s close relationship with Jimmy Hoffa, and the mob’s grip on the NFL; America’s terroristic Phoenix Program in Vietnam, US support for South America’s most brutal tyrannies, and CIA involvement in the Middle East; the secret histories of DuPont, ITT, and other giant US corporations; and the long war waged by Wall Street and its allies in real estate on New York City’s poor and middle class.

The many vanished books on these forbidden subjects (among others) altogether constitute a shadow history of America—a history that We the People need to know at last, our country having now become a land with billionaires in charge, and millions not allowed to vote, and everybody under full surveillance. Through this series, we intend to pull that necessary history from the shadows at long last—to shed some light on how America got here, and how we might now take it somewhere else.

As far back as 1915, under the stimulus of Patrick Geddes, I began to collect the materials that have gone into this book. Like my hitherto published papers and books on architecture, community planning, housing, and regional development, the present study rests primarily on first-hand surveys, conducted in many different regions: beginning with a close study of my own city and region—New York and its immediate hinterland. It both attempts to explore in a more unified way a field hitherto worked on divergent lines by specialists, and to establish, for the purpose of communal action, the basic principles upon which our human environment—buildings, neighbor hoods, cities, regions—may be renovated. Certain aspects of life, those ordinarily treated under the head of ethics, religion, and education, remain to be dealt with at another time. Even at the risk of an occasional repetition of thought, I have had to parallel in this volume parts of Technics and Civilization; but it should be plain that the two works, while independent, are complementary: each seeks to explore what the modern world may hold for mankind once men of good will have learned to subdue the barbarous mechanisms and the mechanized barbarisms that now threaten the very existence of civilization. L. M.

When ‘The Culture of Cities’ appeared a generation ago, the literature of cities was still extremely meager. Despite the work of Marcel Poëte and Pierre Lavedan, the urban historians, Max Weber, the sociologist, and my own master, Patrick Geddes, most of the current thinking about cities proceeded without sufficient insight into their nature, their function, their purpose, their historic role, or their potential future. The brief Introduction that opened ‘The Culture of Cities’ put the whole process of urban development in a fresh perspective; and the chapters that followed were so far in advance of current thinking that I have no hesitation in reprinting them without altering a word—though further observation and experience have called for various minor revisions I have made in later works.

From the outset, ‘The Culture of Cities’ was widely hailed as an outstanding interpretation and a worthy successor to its earlier companion volume, ‘Technics and Civilization.’ But despite a certain measure of popular success, the book exerted little influence in the United States. To many urban planners, administrators, and academic specialists, its constructive proposals seemed too remote from ‘practical’ financial and political requirements to be acceptable; and even some of my onetime co-workers and friends regarded my picture of the increasing demoralization and disintegration of Megalopolis as farfetched and unduly pessimistic.

But elsewhere in the world, as it turned out, ‘The Culture of Cities’ proved to be a timely and encouraging contribution; and during the next two decades, while hope was still “too like despair for prudence to smother,” it exerted a marked influence. The very parts of the book that offended the American specialists in planning and housing made sense to the peoples of Britain and the occupied countries of Europe, whose cities, from Warsaw to London, were being reduced to rubble. They had no difficulty in envisaging Necropolis, the City of the Dead: it was already there. They knew all too well that something had gone wrong with civilization itself: the mounting disasters from 1914 on had prepared their minds for the constructive changes that would be necessary to rebuild their world on a sounder human foundation.

In some countries, notably Britain, ‘The Culture of Cities’ served as a guidebook to reconstruction and renewal. Despite its high price, the first English edition sold out promptly; and half a generation ago, in a poll of municipal officials in Britain, it was still chosen, almost unanimously, as the one book essential for a planner’s education. Not the least service performed by this work was to re-enforce the policy for handling urban growth, not by endless suburban extensions, or heavier internal congestion, but by building New Towns: the method advocated and demonstrated by Sir Ebenezer Howard and his associates in the successful building of two garden cities. These proposals, for long dismissed as ‘romantic’ or ‘old-fashioned’—and even now strangely denounced by Jane Jacobs as an effort to destroy the city—were, so far from being backward, half a century ahead of their time, for Howard’s ‘Garden Cities of Tomorrow’ had been published in 1898.

If ‘The Culture of Cities’ encouraged and stimulated many people in Britain, it had an even more extraordinary, if more limited, effect upon the younger planners of the continent. (The one exception here was France, whose leading urban propagandist, Le Corbusier, had set the fashion for those extravagant high-rise structures that have conformed so admirably to the bureaucratic and technocratic—above all, financial—requirement of the dominant pecuniary-power economy.) Though only a few copies of the American or English editions had trickled into the occupied countries before 1939, they had an effect out of all proportion to their numbers. Summarized in translations, the book, I am happy to report, was used in underground schools of planning in Poland, the Netherlands, and even in Greece. The one copy available in Poland, Matthew Nowicki told me, was actually taken by a prisoner to Auschwitz, and miraculously survived, like its possessor, to return to Warsaw. Similarly, in Finland, a copy of the Swedish edition—brought back, I believe by Alvar Aalto—was presented to the Prime Minister as offering valuable proposals for Finland’s housing and planning after the war.

But soon after the war ended, in the letdown that too often follows an all-out collective effort, the tide turned against such a radical approach to urban and regional rehabilitation. Though the ideas put forward in ‘The Culture of Cities’ continued to have an indirect effect upon the design of the British New Towns from 1947 onward, and had a direct effect upon the rebuilding of Coventry, not least its Shopping Center, more fashionable thought, extrapolating past tendencies, turned toward further metropolitan concentration, with high-rise building for residences as well as offices, with ruthless, socially destructive modes of ‘urban renewal,’ with the reckless dispersal of population by means of multi-laned expressways that daily poured pollution-laden streams of traffic into the city, turning even the proud boulevards of Paris into mere parking lots. In short, Le Corbusier’s bureaucratic concept of the modern metropolis—artfully disguised as ‘la ville radieuse’—temporarily won out.

As a result, by the mid-nineteen-fifties, a professor of urban planning did not hesitate to dismiss ‘The Culture of Cities’ as a ‘Museum Piece.’ In ‘The Urban Prospect’ I have paid my respects to the reigning authorities in urban planning, the technocrats and bureaucrats, the statisticians and mathematical modellers who turned their backs upon the ecological and cultural realities of the city in the hope of transferring all its essential activities to the computer; and I will not trouble to repeat those disrespectful compliments. Enough to say that I only wish I had written more such ‘Museum Pieces’; for the very parts of ‘The Culture of Cities’ that were rejected as obsolete or irrelevant—the chapters on megalopolitan disintegration, on The Politics of Regional Development, and on the Social Basis of the New Urban Order, like my earlier descriptions of environmental pollution—were precisely those that had grown immensely in significance. At least the younger generation has now caught up with me.

Meanwhile, my own thinking did not halt at the point I had reached in 1938. As a professor of City and Regional Planning at the University of Pennsylvania during the nineteen-fifties, I found it necessary to cover the entire span of urban history; and I accordingly expanded the historic chapters of ‘The Culture of Cities’ into the wider panorama of ‘The City in History’: a book whose measure has still to be taken. In conceiving that new work, I intended to follow it with an equally exhaustive account of the contemporary urban prospects: a generous expansion of the second half of the present volume. But since there is no immediate likelihood of my completing such a book, there is all the more reason for bringing out the present volume in its original form; for it is in these final chapters that the ecological foundations for a balanced urban environment were laid down. For those who wish to pursue this line of thinking further, I would suggest the final chapters of ‘The Pentagon of Power’ (1971).

The city, as one finds it in history, is the point of maximum concentration for the power and culture of a community. It is the place where the diffused rays of many separate beams of life fall into focus, with gains in both social effectiveness and significance. The city is the form and symbol of an integrated social relationship: it is the seat of the temple, the market, the hall of justice, the academy of learning. Here in the city the goods of civilization are multiplied and manifolded; here is where human experience is transformed into viable signs, symbols, patterns of conduct, systems of order. Here is where the issues of civilization are focused: here, too, ritual passes on occasion into the active drama of a fully differentiated and self-conscious society.

Cities are a product of the earth. They reflect the peasant’s cunning in dominating the earth; technically they but carry further his skill in turning the soil to productive uses, in enfolding his cattle for safety, in regulating the waters that moisten his fields, in providing storage bins and barns for his crops. Cities are emblems of that settled life which began with permanent agriculture: a life conducted with the aid of permanent shelters, permanent utilities like orchards, vineyards, and irrigation works, and permanent buildings for protection and storage.

Every phase of life in the countryside contributes to the existence of cities. What the shepherd, the woodman, and the miner know, becomes transformed and “etherealized” through the city into durable elements in the human heritage: the textiles and butter of one, the moats and dams and wooden pipes and lathes of another, the metals and jewels of the third, are finally converted into instruments of urban living: underpinning the city’s economic existence, contributing art and wisdom to its daily routine. Within the city the essence of each type of soil and labor and economic goal is concentrated: thus arise greater possibilities for interchange and for new combinations not given in the isolation of their original habitats.

Cities are a product of time. They are the molds in which men’s lifetimes have cooled and congealed, giving lasting shape, by way of art, to moments that would otherwise vanish with the living and leave no means of renewal or wider participation behind them. In the city, time becomes visible: buildings and monuments and public ways, more open than the written record, more subject to the gaze of many men than the scattered artifacts of the countryside, leave an imprint upon the minds even of the ignorant or the indifferent. Through the material fact of preservation, time challenges time, time clashes with time: habits and values carry over beyond the living group, streaking with different strata of time the character of any single generation. Layer upon layer, past times preserve themselves in the city until life itself is finally threatened with suffocation: then, in sheer defense, modern man invents the museum.

By the diversity of its time-structures, the city in part escapes the tyranny of a single present, and the monotony of a future that consists in repeating only a single beat heard in the past. Through its complex orchestration of time and space, no less than through the social division of labor, life in the city takes on the character of a symphony: specialized human aptitudes, specialized instruments, give rise to sonorous results which, neither in volume nor in quality, could be achieved by any single piece.

Cities arise out of man’s social needs and multiply both their modes and their methods of expression. In the city remote forces and influences intermingle with the local: their conflicts are no less significant than their harmonies. And here, through the concentration of the means of intercourse in the market and the meeting place, alternative modes of living present themselves: the deeply rutted ways of the village cease to be coercive and the ancestral goals cease to be all-sufficient: strange men and women, strange interests, and stranger gods loosen the traditional ties of blood and neighborhood. A sailing ship, a caravan, stopping at the city, may bring a new dye for wool, a new glaze for the potter’s dish, a new system of signs for long distance communication, or a new thought about human destiny.

In the urban milieu, mechanical shocks produce social results; and social needs may take shape in contrivances and inventions which will lead industries and governments into new channels of experiment. Now the need for a common fortified spot for shelter against predatory attack draws the inhabitants of the indigenous village into a hillside fortification: through the compulsive mingling for defense, the possibilities for more regular intercourse and wider co-operation arise. That fact helps transform the nest of villages into a unified city, with its higher ceiling of achievement and its wider horizons. Now the collective sharing of experience, and the stimulus of rational criticism, turn the rites of the village festival into the more powerful imaginative forms of the tragic drama: experience is deepened, as well as more widely circulated, through this process. Or again, on another plane, the goldsmith’s passive repository for valuables becomes, through the pressure of urban needs and the opportunities of the market, the dynamic agent of capitalism, the bank, lending money as well as keeping it, putting capital into circulation, finally dominating the processes of trade and production.

The city is a fact in nature, like a cave, a run of mackerel or an ant-heap. But it is also a conscious work of art, and it holds within its communal framework many simpler and more personal forms of art. Mind takes form in the city; and in turn, urban forms condition mind. For space, no less than time, is artfully reorganized in cities: in boundary lines and silhouettes, in the fixing of horizontal planes and vertical peaks, in utilizing or denying the natural site, the city records the attitude of a culture and an epoch to the fundamental facts of its existence. The dome and the spire, the open avenue and the closed court, tell the story, not merely of different physical accommodations, but of essentially different conceptions of man’s destiny. The city is both a physical utility for collective living and a symbol of those collective purposes and unanimities that arise under such favoring circumstance. With language itself, it remains man’s greatest work of art.

Through its concrete, visible command over space the city lends itself, not only to the practical offices of production, but to the daily communion of its citizens: this constant effect of the city, as a collective work of art, was expressed in a classic manner by Thomas Mann in his address to his fellow-townsmen of Lübeck on the celebration of the anniversary of Lübeck’s foundation. When the city ceases to be a symbol of art and order, it acts in a negative fashion: it expresses and helps to make more universal the fact of disintegration. In the close quarters of the city, perversities and evils spread more quickly; and in the stones of the city, these anti-social facts become embedded: it is not the triumphs of urban living that awaken the prophetic wrath of a Jeremiah, a Savonarola, a Rousseau, or a Ruskin.

What transforms the passive agricultural regime of the village into the active institutions of the city? The difference is not merely one of magnitude, density of population, or economic resources. For the active agent is any factor that extends the area of local intercourse, that engenders the need for combination and co-operation, communication and communion; and that so creates a common underlying pattern of conduct, and a common set of physical structures, for the different family and occupational groups that constitute a city. These opportunities and activities superimpose upon primary groups, based upon traditional acceptances and daily face-to-face contact, the more active associations, the more specialized functions, and the more purposive interests of secondary groups: in the latter the purpose is not given, but chosen: the membership and the activities are selective: the group itself becomes specialized and differentiated.

Historically, the increase of population, through the change from hunting to agriculture, may have abetted this change; the widening of trade routes and the diversification of occupations likewise helped. But the nature of the city is not to be found simply in its economic base: the city is primarily a social emergent. The mark of the city is its purposive social complexity. It represents the maximum possibility of humanizing the natural environment and of naturalizing the human heritage: it gives a cultural shape to the first, and it externalizes, in permanent collective forms, the second.

“The central and significant fact about the city,” as Geddes and Branford pointed out, “is that the city … functions as the specialized organ of social transmission. It accumulates and embodies the heritage of a region, and combines in some measure and kind with the cultural heritage of larger units, national, racial, religious, human. On one side is the individuality of the city—the sign manual of its regional life and record. On the other are the marks of the civilization, in which each particular city is a constituent element.”

Today a great many things stand in the way of grasping the rôle of the city and of transforming this basic means of communal existence. During the last few centuries the strenuous mechanical organization of industry, and the setting up of tyrannous political states, have blinded most men to the importance of facts that do not easily fit into the general pattern of mechanical conquest, capitalistic forms of exploitation, and power politics. Habitually, people treat the realities of personality and association and city as abstractions, while they treat confused pragmatic abstractions such as money, credit, political sovereignty, as if they were concrete realities that had an existence independent of human conventions.

Looking back over the course of Western Civilization since the fifteenth century, it is fairly plain that mechanical integration and social disruption have gone on side by side. Our capacity for effective physical organization has enormously increased; but our ability to create a harmonious counterpoise to these external linkages by means of co-operative and civic associations on both a regional and a world-wide basis, like the Christian Church in the Middle Ages, has not kept pace with these mechanical triumphs. By one of those mischievous turns, from which history is rarely free, it was precisely during this period of flowing physical energies, social disintegration, and bewildered political experiment that the populations of the world as a whole began mightily to increase, and the cities of the Western World began to grow at an inordinate rate. Forms of social life that the wisest no longer understood, the more ignorant were prepared to build. Or rather: the ignorant were completely unprepared, but that did not prevent the building.

The result was not a temporary confusion and an occasional lapse in efficiency. What followed was a crystallization of chaos: disorder hardened uncouthly in metropolitan slum and industrial factory districts; and the exodus into the dormitory suburbs and factory spores that surrounded the growing cities merely widened the area of social derangement. The mechanized physical shell took precedence in every growing town over the civic nucleus: men became dissociated as citizens in the very process of coming together in imposing economic organizations. Even industry, which was supposedly served by this planless building and random physical organization, lost seriously in efficiency: it failed to produce a new urban form that served directly its complicated processes. As for the growing urban populations, they lacked the most elementary facilities for urban living, even sunlight and fresh air, to say nothing of the means to a more vivid social life. The new cities grew up without the benefit of coherent social knowledge or orderly social effort: they lacked the useful urban folkways of the Middle Ages or the confident esthetic command of the Baroque period: indeed, a seventeenth century Dutch peasant, in his little village, knew more about the art of living in communities than a nineteenth century municipal councilor in London or Berlin. Statesmen who did not hesitate to weld together a diversity of regional interests into national states, or who wove together an empire that girdled the planet, failed to produce even a rough draft of a decent neighborhood.

In every department, form disintegrated: except in its heritage from the past, the city vanished as an embodiment of collective art and technics. And where, as in North America, the loss was not alleviated by the continued presence of great monuments from the past and persistent habits of social living, the result was a raw, dissolute environment, and a narrow, constricted, and baffled social life. Even in Germany and the Low Countries, where the traditions of urban life had lingered on from the Middle Ages, the most colossal blunders were committed in the most ordinary tasks of urban planning and building. As the pace of urbanization increased, the circle of devastation widened.

Today we face not only the original social disruption. We likewise face the accumulated physical and social results of that disruption: ravaged landscapes, disorderly urban districts, pockets of disease, patches of blight, mile upon mile of standardized slums, worming into the outlying areas of big cities, and fusing with their ineffectual suburbs. In short: a general miscarriage and defeat of civilized effort. So far have our achievements fallen short of our needs that even a hundred years of persistent reform in England, the first country to suffer heavily from disurbanization, have only in the last decade begun to leave an imprint. True: here and there patches of good building and coherent social form exist: new nodes of integration can be detected, and since 1920 these patches have been spreading. But the main results of more than a century of misbuilding and malformation, dissociation and disorganization still hold. Whether the observer focuses his gaze on the physical structure of communal living or upon the social processes that must be embodied and expressed, the report remains the same.

Today we begin to see that the improvement of cities is no matter for small one-sided reforms: the task of city design involves the vaster task of rebuilding our civilization. We must alter the parasitic and predatory modes of life that now play so large a part, and we must create region by region, continent by continent, an effective symbiosis, or co-operative living together. The problem is to co-ordinate, on the basis of more essential human values than the will-to-power and the will-to-profits, a host of social functions and processes that we have hitherto misused in the building of cities and polities, or of which we have never rationally taken advantage.

Unfortunately, the fashionable political philosophies of the past century are of but small help in defining this new task: they dealt with legal abstractions, like Individual and State, with cultural abstractions, like Humanity, the Nation, the Folk, or with bare economic abstractions like the Capitalist Class or the Proletariat—while life as it was lived in the concrete, in regions and cities and villages, in wheatland and cornland and vineland, in the mine, the quarry, the fishery, was conceived as but a shadow of the prevailing myths and arrogant fantasies of the ruling classes—or the often no less shadowy fantasies of those who challenged them.

Here and there one notes, of course, valiant exceptions both in theory and in action. Le Play and Reclus in France, W. H. Riehl in Germany, Kropotkin in Russia, Howard in England, Grundtvig in Denmark, Geddes in Scotland, began half a century ago to lay the ideological basis for a new order. The insights of these men may prove as important for the new biotechnic regime, based on the deliberate culture of life, as the formulations of Leonardo, Galileo, Newton, and Descartes were for the more limited mechanical order upon which the past triumphs of our machine civilization were founded. In the piecemeal improvement of cities, the work of sanitarians like Chadwick and Richardson, community designers like Olmsted, far-seeing architects, like Parker and Wright, laid the concrete basis for a collective environment in which the needs of reproduction and nurture and psychological development and the social processes themselves would be adequately served.

Now the dominant urban environment of the past century has been mainly a narrow by-product of the machine ideology. And the greater part of it has already been made obsolete by the rapid advance of the biological arts and sciences, and by the steady penetration of sociological thought into every department. We have now reached a point where these fresh accumulations of historical insight and scientific knowledge are ready to flow over into social life, to mold anew the forms of cities, to assist in the transformation of both the instruments and the goals of our civilization. Profound changes, which will affect the distribution and increase of population, the efficiency of industry, and the quality of Western Culture, have already become visible. To form an accurate estimate of these new potentialities and to suggest their direction into channels of human welfare, is one of the major offices of the contemporary student of cities. Ultimately, such studies, forecasts, and imaginative projects must bear directly upon the life of every human being in our civilization.

What is the city? How has it functioned in the Western World since the tenth century, when the renewal of cities began, and in particular, what changes have come about in its physical and social composition during the last century? What factors have conditioned the size of cities, the extent of their growth, the type of order manifested in street plan and in building, their manner of nucleation, the composition of their economic and social classes, their physical manner of existence and their cultural style? By what political processes of federation or amalgamation, co-operative union or centralization, have cities existed; and what new units of administration does the present age suggest? Have we yet found an adequate urban form to harness all the complex technical and social forces in our civilization; and if a new order is discernible, what are its main outlines? What are the relations between city and region? And what steps are necessary in order to redefine and reconstruct the region itself, as a collective human habitation? What, in short, are the possibilities for creating form and order and design in our present civilization?

These are some of the questions I shall pose in the following study. Wherever possible, I shall utilize for answer concrete contemporary examples: a procedure that is all the easier because the germs and embryonic forms of the new order are by now, for the greater part, in existence. But where this is impossible, I shall seek to uncover the essential principle upon whose basis a viable answer or solution may be predicted.

Today our world faces a crisis: a crisis which, if its consequences are as grave as now seems, may not fully be resolved for another century. If the destructive forces in civilization gain ascendancy, our new urban culture will be stricken in every part. Our cities, blasted and deserted, will be cemeteries for the dead: cold lairs given over to less destructive beasts than man. But we may avert that fate: perhaps only in facing such a desperate challenge can the necessary creative forces be effectually welded together. Instead of clinging to the sardonic funeral towers of metropolitan finance, ours to march out to newly plowed fields, to create fresh patterns of political action, to alter for human purposes the perverse mechanisms of our economic regime, to conceive and to germinate fresh forms of human culture.

Instead of accepting the stale cult of death that the fascists have erected, as the proper crown for the servility and the brutality that are the pillars of their states, we must erect a cult of life: life in action, as the farmer or the mechanic knows it: life in expression, as the artist knows it: life as the lover feels it and the parent practices it: life as it is known to men of good will who meditate in the cloister, experiment in the laboratory, or plan intelligently in the factory or the government office.

Nothing is permanent: certainly not the frozen images of barbarous power with which fascism now confronts us. Those images may easily be smashed by an external shock, cracked as ignominiously as fallen Dagon, the massive idol of the heathen: or they may be melted, eventually, by the internal warmth of normal men and women. Nothing endures except life: the capacity for birth, growth, and daily renewal. As life becomes insurgent once more in our civilization, conquering the reckless thrust of barbarism, the culture of cities will be both instrument and goal.

Before one approaches the medieval town one must strip off the false wrappings in which successive generations have swathed this portion of the European past. The Middle Ages were defamed during the early Renascence for vices that actually belonged to their defamers: history offers many instances of the “transferred reproach.” Thus the earlier inhabitants of historic cities were vilified for demolishing precious Roman monuments that were not in fact destroyed until the very period that professed to value them, the age of the new humanists.

Let us depart, to begin with, from the notion that the period from the tenth to the sixteenth century was a compound of ignorance, filth, brutality, and superstition; for such a description does not altogether fit the life of Europe as a whole even during the worst parts of the Dark Ages, which still felt the civilizing influences of Celtic monasticism and the resolute order and economy of Charles the Great. This view of the Middle Ages is partly a product of the eighteenth century “Gothic Romances,” with their lurid pictures of torture chambers, cobwebs, mystery, and madness. No doubt such elements existed; but they no more characterized the civilization as a whole than the existence of armed gangsters and organized rackets and fascist pirates entirely characterizes our present civilization. One must not magnify the black spots in the past nor minimize those in our own day.

One must of course equally set aside the charming tapestry of the Middle Ages, composed by Pugin, Ruskin, Morris, and similar writers: they often treated intentions as if they were facts and ideals as if they were realizations. Above all, this version forgets that if the Middle Ages were governed by bold warriors and patient craftsmen, it was likewise a period of embryonic capitalist enterprise and audacious technical improvements: eager merchants, adventurous entrepreneurs, canny inventors: a period that invented the mechanical clock, made radical improvements in mining, sailing, and military attack, and learned to cast iron and manufacture glass spectacles and utilize physical energy on a scale never before achieved by any other civilization.

Our Middle Ages is far richer in detail than the earlier versions; and as respects the management of industry and the building of cities one finds even more to commend than did the most ardent early advocates of Catholic piety. There is a social kinship between our own age and the age of the guilds that parallels the relation I pointed out in Technics and Civilization between the eotechnic and the neotechnic complexes. And in the domain of cities, we have tardily begun to realize that our hard-earned discoveries in the art of laying out towns, especially in the hygienic laying out of towns, merely recapitulate, in terms of our own social needs, the commonplaces of sound medieval practice. Does this seem topsy-turvy? On the contrary: it was the myth that was baseless.

Between the date that symbolizes the fall of Rome and the eleventh century, when the cities of the West awakened to a new life, lies a period that is hard to describe but important to understand. It was out of the incurable misery and terror of this age that certain special attitudes toward life grew up which powerfully affected the development of all the dominant social institutions of the West—particularly the city. Five centuries of violence, paralysis, and uncertainty had created in the European heart a profound desire for security. When every chance might prove a mischance, when every moment might be one’s last moment, the need for protection rose above every other concern, and to find a safe haven was about the most one asked from life.

In Italy and France the old ways, it is true, had never entirely disappeared: hence the pagan undercurrents in that life: hence the twelfth century Renascence, so much more vital, both as continuation and as rebirth, than that which was to follow. But a disorganization and diminishment of the forces of civilization did characterize this period: the worst effects became visible only around the ninth century. Slavery, which had taken root in Roman agriculture, was introduced on a wide scale by the conquering barbarians; and the population, never far from famine, actually decreased. Military terrorism and its parasitic economy led to a devolution of the city: people left these stony wastes because they were driven to accept life at a subsistence level. Even when they remained in the neighborhood of an old city, like Mainz or Trier, it was no longer a meaningful part of their active life: only the shell remained. Its stones served as caves in the rock might have served—bare hiding places for those fleeing from the wrath to come.

If the Saracen encirclement of the Mediterranean hastened the passage from the uniform organization on the old imperial lines to a feudal economy of local production, barter, and consumption, under special local customs and local laws, the final blow was given at the other end of Europe by the invasions of the Norsemen in the ninth century. The final blow—and the first move toward recovery. These Norse raids were conducted in small boats that pierced the heart of the countryside between Brittany and the Elbe: no district was immune to their sacking, burning, slaying. The terror of these visitations must have created a new community of interest between the feudal lord and his dependents; but it also showed the technical inferiority of the local war-band in opposing attacks carried on by more audacious, perhaps more highly specialized, opponents.

Sheer necessity led to the rediscovery of an important fact. In the crude state of Western military technics in the ninth century, the strength and security of a fortified stronghold, perched on some impregnable rock, could be secured even for the relatively helpless people of the lowlands provided they built a wooden palisade or a stone wall around their village. Such a wall, particularly when surrounded by a moat, kept the attacker out, and made his weapons ineffective. In terror of the invaders, the inhabitants of Mainz, for example, restored at last their dilapidated Roman wall. Under commissions from the German emperor, Henry I, walls were built even around monasteries and nunneries to guard them from attack. And in Italy, too, walls were built again at the end of the ninth century in order to repel the Hungarians and other invaders.

This discovery, fortunately, proved to be double-edged. If the wall could protect the town from outside invasions more successfully than the feudal war-band, could it not also protect the community from the invasions and usurpations of these greedy and arrogant “protectors”? By means of the wall, any village could become another stronghold: people would flock to that island of peace, as originally they had submitted in desperation to the feudal gang-leaders or had given up the hopes of domesticity to find protection in a monastery or a nunnery. Life in the open country, even under the shadow of a castle, ceased to be as attractive as life behind the urban wall. Stockades, such as one still sees in Lucas Cranach’s woodcut of the siege of Wolfenbüttel in 1542, were a cheap price to pay for such collective security of life and property, such regularity in trade and work, such peace in thought and worship.

Note the sequence. First the cowering countryside, with its local production and mainly local barter: social life gathered in little villages or in “suburbs,” as the agricultural settlements that nestled under the castle’s walls were called. Then a deliberate physical reconstruction of the environment: the wall: protection made permanent and regular. In this security from outside raids and impositions, local craftsmen and peasants and fishermen, under privileges wrung from their local lord, came together for a regular weekly or fortnightly market: presently they sought permanent quarters for themselves in a spot that combined so many advantages in living. It is significant to note that, as Hegel points out, the new quarter of Regensburg, in the eleventh century—as distinguished from the royal and the clerical quarters—is that of the merchants. As social life became more solid and compact, this industrial and merchants’ quarter, the suburb, became the town center; and the seats of feudal and ecclesiastical power tended to become more suburban.

This urban movement was a chequered one. It marched under various banners, issued out of different circumstances, and produced diverse results. Sometimes urbanization was deliberately promoted by the feudal lords; often it was opposed by them, particularly by the princes of the Church, above all, when the rights of political and economic independence were claimed by the new townsmen. In some countries, as in England and France, municipal freedom was promoted by a temporary coalition with the central power, as a means of weakening the feudal nobles who challenged the king’s dominion. But, opposed or helped, the population flowed into these protected centers, built and rebuilt them, and in a few centuries created perhaps the highest type of urban civilization that had been known in Europe since the fifth century in Greece.

The revival of trade is often taken, even by eminent scholars like Pirenne, as the direct cause of the city-building and civilizing activities that took place in the eleventh century. But the fact is that this urban renascence and its characteristic agents date from the previous century: their locus is not the isolated market, but the monastery.