I bought a house in a hurry in the city of Oakland some time ago. I
do not live in it. I sleep in it half a dozen times a year. I do
not love the house. I am hurt every time I look at it. No drunken
rowdy or political enemy can insult me so deeply as that house does.
Let me tell you why. It is an ordinary two-storey frame house.
After it was built, the criminal that constructed it nailed on, at
the corners perpendicularly, some two-inch fluted planks. These
planks rise the height of the house, and to a drunken man have the
appearance of fluted columns. To complete the illusion in the eyes
of the drunken man, the planks are topped with wooden Ionic capitals,
nailed on, and in, I may say, bas-relief.
When I analyze the irritation these fluted planks cause in me, I find
the reason in the fact that the first rule for building a house has
been violated. These decorative planks are no part of the
construction. They have no use, no work to perform. They are
plastered gawds that tell lies that nobody believes.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175