And I would say something similar of the Bush Building, with
its alabaster chapel in the air which becomes translucent at night; and
the Madison Square Tower (whose clock face, I noticed, has the amazing
diameter of three storeys); and the Burroughs Welcome Building on 41st
Street, with its lovely perpendicular lines; and that immense cube of
masonry on Park Avenue which bursts into flower, so to speak, at the top
in the shape of a very beautiful loggia. But even if these adornments
become, as I hope, the rule, one could not resent the ordinary
structural elephantiasis a moment after realising New York's physical
conditions. A growing city built on a narrow peninsula is unable to
expand laterally and must, therefore, soar. The problem was how to make
it soar with dignity, and the problem has been solved.
In the old days when brown stone was the only builders' medium New York
must have been a drab city indeed; or so I gather from the few ancient
typical residences that remain. There are a few that are new, too, but
for the most part the modern house is of white stone. Gayest of all is,
I suppose, that vermilion-roofed florist's on Fifth Avenue.
One has to ascend the Woolworth Building to appreciate at a blow with
what discretion the original settlers of New York made their choice. It
is interesting, too, to watch Broadway--which, for all I know, is the
longest street in the world--starting at one's feet on its lawless
journey to Albany: lawless because it is almost the only sinuous thing
in this city of parallelograms and has the effrontery to cross
diagonally both Fifth Avenue and Sixth.
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