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(Download PDF) The Culture of Cities Lewis Mumford Online Ebook All Chapter PDF
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The Culture of Cities
Lewis Mumford
CONTENTS
Series Introduction
Introduction
Preface to the 1970 Edition
INTRODUCTION
GLOSSARY
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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.
II
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.
III
Why read a book about cities that was published nearly eighty years
ago? Because we need Lewis Mumford’s classic study more than
ever: The Culture of Cities not only explains a range of urban
problems still confronting us today, but also offers a vision of what
our cities could be like—a vision even more important now than it
was back in 1938.
By the time he wrote this book, Mumford was already an
influential thinker, as the New Yorker’s architecture critic, and author
of a series of respected cultural and architectural histories—The
Story of Utopias, Sticks and Stones, The Golden Day, The Brown
Decades, Technics and Civilization—that had established him among
this nation’s leading public intellectuals of the 1920s and 30s.
While it heightened Mumford’s national renown (he made the
cover of Time magazine in 1938), The Culture of Cities made him
internationally famous as well. Soon after its publication, he was
invited by the city of Honolulu, and communities throughout the
Pacific Northwest, to advise them on urban growth and regional
planning,1 and, after World War II, the British government sought
his guidance on rebuilding London.2 In a world racked by
depression, and then the war, many people were profoundly moved
by what one reviewer called Mumford’s “great and terrible
indictment of our existing culture.”3
And yet this book is more than an indictment: Mumford argues
that many of the challenges faced throughout the world—challenges
that still confront the world today—are due to the inappropriate
scale and organization of our political and economic system. In the
book’s first four chapters, he traces the emergence of the nation-
state and global capitalism out of European feudalism, in which
Mumford saw a model for the future, more local and appropriately
scaled.4 He then proceeds to lay out in the final three chapters an
alternative, wherein city-based regions would become the dominant
political, social, and economic unit, with boundaries based not on
historical happenstance, but on the geography of shared culture and
natural resources.
That vision informs Mumford’s advocacy of what he called “the
medieval synthesis.”5 Contrary to the prevailing notion of medieval
cities as filthy, anarchic, and diseased, Mumford extols their unity,
coherence, and vitality, citing lessons for today in their modest size,
incremental development, and mix of uses—aspects of what we now
call “sustainability.” Many of their salient features—their protected
boundaries, lively streets and markets, central churches, town halls,
and universities—Mumford sees as rational adaptations to local
conditions and regional needs, organically arising over time. He
takes the same view of medieval houses, with their integration of
work and living spaces, their use of local materials, and their “lack of
differentiated space and differentiated function.”6
Mumford, who called himself a “generalist,”7 writes here less as a
historian than as a polemicist, for a position that he seeks to ground
historically. We see this, for example, in Chapter 2, “Court, Parade,
and Capital,” where he merges the three conventional epochs of
modern European history—the Renaissance, Neoclassical, and
Romantic eras—into a single category: the baroque.
In Mumford’s view, the baroque city imposed geometrical forms
onto the landscape: street grids and radial boulevards terminating
on monumental structures. This style was the product of
concentrated wealth and power, and the concomitant rise of big
government and the bureaucratic state. The baroque mentality also
led to the emergence and dominance of capital cities, which
Mumford sees as bleeding Europe’s many regional centers of their
social and economic life, so as to gorge the centers of the nation-
states, whose boundaries were largely unrelated to ecological and
cultural regions.
With the Industrial Revolution, and the ascendance of big
business, the baroque city of big government evolved into the
industrial city, or “Coketown,” which Mumford describes in Chapter 3,
“The Insensate Industrial Town.” Overcrowded, squalid, and
polluted, the industrial cities of the nineteenth century grew rapidly
and knew no bounds, driven by the excessive accumulation of
wealth, the overconsumption of goods, and ever-growing power of
what Mumford calls “mechanical order,” wherein making money was
the only thing that mattered. Although the industrial city was quite
different physically from its baroque ancestor, Mumford notes their
deep connection, inasmuch as both depended for their growth on
the relentless exploitation of people and resources.
Mumford draws these historical threads together in Chapter 4,
“The Rise and Fall of Megalopolis” (a term first used by Mumford’s
mentor, Patrick Geddes).8 Here Mumford makes the seminal
argument that the contemporary city—the megalopolis—has largely
continued the expansion and exploitation that marked the urbanism
of the previous centuries. Surely there were many changes in
technology, as civilization shifted from what Mumford (like Geddes
before him) calls an “eotechnic” or “water-and-wood complex” to a
“paleotechnic” or “coal and iron” era.
Beneath such technological change, however, the concentration of
wealth and power, and the pursuit of boundless growth, were
undiminished in the modern city: a trend that is, in Mumford’s view,
untenable—or, as we now put it, unsustainable. If it continues to
enlarge itself, the modern megalopolis, Mumford predicts, will
metastasize into a “tyrannopolis,” run by dictators and gangsters,
and eventually into necropolis, a city of death of dying.
From this grim forecast, however, Mumford moves on to a much
more optimistic view in his last three chapters, which lay out an
alternative path—a “neotechnic” or “biotechnic” future, based on a
“completer integration of the machine with human needs and
desires.” This would be a world comprising networks of regional
cities, limited in size, and linked by trains and other means of
transportation to traverse the surrounding rural landscapes.
This ideal combines a range of extant urbanist ideas—Ebenezer
Howard’s “garden cities,”9 Patrick Geddes’s organic regionalism,10
and even Frank Lloyd Wright’s Broadacre City,11 which had a similar
agrarian emphasis. And Mumford could point to enough examples of
regional cities already built—Radburn in the United States,12
Letchworth in England13—to demonstrate the viability of this vision,
and give readers a sense of what such a future might look like, and
what it might feel like to live in.
For all that, however, Mumford’s vision is also strikingly original,
based on several of his key ideas. The history recounted in his first
four chapters makes the idea of regional cities seem almost
inevitable—and essential, if we want to avoid a future of endless
inequality and insurrection. That history shows how regional cities
remain part of a much longer tradition of organically formed
communities dating back to the very first human settlements.
Above all, Mumford makes the case that, in city building as well as
most other aspects of human activity, scale matters. He shows,
sometimes in exhaustive detail, how the problems that we face in
the modern city, inherited from the baroque and industrial cities that
preceded it, largely arise from a belief that bigger is better and that
all growth is good. For Mumford, cities, like any biological
community, have natural limits, and we get in trouble when we
ignore those limits, thinking that they don’t apply to us, or that we
can overcome them.
This idea sounds surprisingly fresh today. As nations worldwide
slip into political gridlock and/or civil war; and global capitalism
continues to push more wealth into ever fewer hands; and
multinational corporations use up our key natural resources, and
pollute them past the point where it affects the very climate, and
wipes out keystone species, Mumford’s visions seem more relevant
than ever. The challenge lies in figuring out exactly how we might
reorganize the world into culturally and environmentally sensible
regions. How would those whose power and profits have depended
on the current model ever let that happen?
This question highlights the main weakness of The Culture of
Cities and Mumford’s other works.14 He presents a very appealing
description of a future in which people would live in close-knit
communities, in healthy relationships with each other and with
nature, with a stable population and responsive governance and
responsible commerce, all within a humanly scale-built environment;
but getting there from here is ever harder to imagine. Mumford
seems to see it happening through a transformation in the way we
think about the world around us, and about ourselves—a shift that
he examined in such later works as The Condition of Man15 and The
Conduct of Life16. It is still difficult to see exactly how such personal
conversions might bring on the larger change that Mumford
advocates, despite the heartfelt and extraordinarily compelling way
in which he argues for it.
And yet, at this late date, that may be changing. To see how, we
might compare The Culture of Cities with The Economy of Cities17, a
much later book by Mumford’s sometime nemesis, urban theorist
and cultural critic Jane Jacobs. While Mumford highlighted his
differences with Jacobs,18 both saw the need for a re-evaluation of
our values and envisioned our social, political, and economic future
centered around city-based regions, whether built on green-field
sites, as Mumford imagined, or emerging within existing cities, as
Jacobs argued. Way ahead of their time with this idea, both authors,
were they alive today, might find it gratifying that, in an era of
increasing social diversity, economic change, and political gridlock,
cities and the regions immediately around them have become the
places where the greatest transformations occur and opportunities
lie, as several commentators have observed.19
Jacobs’ book also complements Mumford’s by showing how
regional economies work and how, through import-replacement and
internally generated innovation, they can emerge as important
players in the global economy. This suggests that, while personal
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.
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qu’il a encouru, Martan invente toutes sortes de mensonges, et son
impudente et rusée compagne lui vient en aide de son mieux.
Qu’il le crût ou non, le jeune chevalier accepta ses excuses ;
mais il jugea prudent de partir sur-le-champ sans en rien dire à
personne, dans la crainte que le peuple, s’il voyait Martan reparaître,
ne vînt à se soulever aussitôt. Suivant une rue courte et déserte, ils
sortirent de la ville.
Griffon, soit que son cheval fût fatigué, soit que lui-même sentît le
sommeil appesantir ses paupières, s’arrêta à la première hôtellerie
qu’ils trouvèrent, bien qu’ils n’eussent pas marché plus de deux
milles. Il retira son casque, se désarma complètement et fit enlever
aux chevaux la selle et la bride. Puis, s’étant enfermé seul dans une
chambre, il se déshabilla et se mit au lit pour dormir.
Il n’eut pas plus tôt la tête basse, qu’il ferma les yeux et qu’il fut
pris d’un sommeil si profond, que jamais blaireau ni loir ne dormirent
de telle sorte. Pendant ce temps, Martan et Origile, étant à se
promener dans un jardin voisin, ourdirent la plus étrange trahison qui
soit jamais venue à l’esprit humain.
Martan propose d’enlever le destrier, les habits et les armes de
Griffon, et d’aller se présenter au roi comme étant le chevalier qui
avait accompli tant de prouesses pendant le tournoi. L’exécution suit
de près la pensée. Il prend le destrier plus blanc que le lait, et se
couvre du cimier, de l’écu, des armes, du pourpoint, enfin de tous les
vêtements blancs de Griffon.
Il arrive, suivi des écuyers et de la dame, sur la place où toute la
population était encore, juste au moment où finissent les passes
d’armes. Le roi ordonne de chercher le chevalier dont le cimier est
orné de plumes blanches, qui porte une blanche armure, et dont le
coursier est également blanc. Il ignorait en effet le nom du
vainqueur.
Le misérable qui était revêtu des vêtements qui ne lui
appartenaient pas, semblable à l’âne couvert de la peau du lion,
s’avance vers Norandin, à la place de Griffon, dès qu’il entend
l’ordre concernant celui-ci, et auquel il s’attendait. Le roi se lève et
vient d’un air courtois à sa rencontre ; il l’entoure de ses bras,
l’embrasse, et le fait asseoir à ses côtés. Il ne se contente pas de le
combler d’honneurs et d’éloges, il veut que le bruit de sa valeur
retentisse en tous lieux.
Il fait publier, au son des trompettes, le nom du vainqueur du
tournoi, et ce nom indigne se répand sur toutes les estrades et est
répété dans toutes les bouches. Le roi veut qu’il chevauche à ses
côtés quand le cortège retourne au palais ; il lui prodigue de telles
faveurs, qu’il n’aurait pas plus fait si c’eût été Hercule ou Mars.
Il lui fait donner dans le palais même un bel appartement,
magnifiquement orné ; enfin pour honorer aussi Origile, il met à sa
disposition ses pages et ses chevaliers. Mais il est temps que je
reparle de Griffon, qui, sans se douter d’une trahison de la part de
son compagnon, s’était endormi et ne se réveilla que le soir.
Dès qu’il est réveillé et qu’il s’aperçoit de l’heure tardive, il sort en
toute hâte de sa chambre, et court à l’endroit où il a laissé la
trompeuse Origile et son prétendu frère. Il ne les trouve plus ; il
regarde, et ne voit plus ses armes ni ses vêtements ; alors le
soupçon le prend, et ce soupçon s’augmente, quand il aperçoit à la
place des siens les vêtements de son compagnon.
Survient l’hôte qui l’informe que depuis longtemps déjà Martan,
revêtu de l’armure blanche, est rentré dans la ville, accompagné de
la dame et du reste de l’escorte. Peu à peu Griffon s’aperçoit de la
trame perfide qu’Amour lui a cachée jusqu’à ce jour ; à sa grande
douleur, il reconnaît que Martan est l’amant d’Origile et non son
frère.
Il se reproche maintenant, mais en vain, sa sottise. Après avoir
appris la vérité de la bouche du pèlerin, il s’est laissé prendre aux
belles paroles de celle qui l’avait déjà trahi si souvent. Il pouvait se
venger, et il ne l’a pas su. Maintenant il veut punir le traître qui s’est
enfui. En attendant, il est contraint, et cela lui coûtera cher,
d’endosser les armes et de prendre le cheval de ce lâche.
Il eût mieux valu pour lui aller nu et sans armes, que mettre sur
son dos cette cuirasse déshonorée, que passer à son bras l’écu
honteux, et coiffer sa tête du casque aux insignes bafoués. Mais
pour suivre l’impudente et son digne compagnon, sa raison est
moins forte que sa colère. Il arrive à temps dans la ville, une heure
avant la fin du jour.
Près de la porte par laquelle était rentré Griffon, s’élève, à main
gauche, un splendide château, plus remarquable par ses riches
appartements et ses décorations, que disposé de façon à soutenir
un siège. Le roi, les seigneurs et les principaux chevaliers de Syrie,
en compagnie de nobles dames, s’y livraient, sur la terrasse royale,
à un somptueux et joyeux festin.
La belle terrasse se prolongeait au delà du rempart, hors de la
ville, et dominait tout le château. De ce point, on découvrait au loin la
vaste campagne et les diverses routes qui la sillonnaient. Lorsque
Griffon, couvert des armes de l’opprobre et de la lâcheté, arriva à la
porte, il fut naturellement aperçu par le roi et toute la cour.
Et comme on le prenait pour celui dont il portait les insignes, les
dames et les chevaliers se mirent à rire. Le vil Martan, comme
quelqu’un qui est en grande faveur, était assis auprès du roi, ayant
près de lui sa digne compagne. Norandin voulut savoir d’eux quel
était ce couard qui avait si peu de souci de son honneur,
Qu’après une si triste et si honteuse lâcheté, il osait se présenter
de nouveau, et si effrontément, devant eux. Il disait : « — Ceci me
paraît chose assez nouvelle que vous, guerrier aussi digne que
courageux, ayez pour compagnon un homme qui ne trouverait pas
son égal en lâcheté dans tous les pays du Levant. Vous l’avez fait
sans doute pour faire mieux ressortir, par la comparaison, votre
grande valeur.
« Mais, je vous jure bien par les dieux éternels, que si ce n’était
par égard pour vous, je lui appliquerais publiquement le traitement
ignominieux que j’ai l’habitude d’appliquer à ses pareils. Je le ferais
se souvenir éternellement que j’ai toujours été l’ennemi de la
lâcheté. Mais qu’il sache que s’il part impuni, c’est grâce à vous qui
l’avez amené ici. — »
Celui qui fut un réceptacle de tous les vices répondit : « —
Puissant seigneur, je ne saurais dire qui il est, car je l’ai trouvé par
hasard sur la route d’Antioche. Son air m’avait convaincu qu’il était
digne de m’accompagner. Je ne lui ai jamais vu faire d’autre
prouesse que celle par laquelle il s’est si tristement signalé
aujourd’hui.
« J’en ai été si indigné, qu’il s’en est peu fallu, pour le punir de sa
lâcheté, que je ne le misse hors d’état de toucher jamais lance ni
épée. Mais j’ai été retenu non par pitié de lui, mais par le respect du
lieu où j’étais, et par celui que je dois à Votre Majesté. Cependant, je
ne veux pas qu’il puisse se vanter d’avoir été, ne fût-ce qu’un jour ou
deux, mon compagnon.
« Il me semble que j’en serais moi-même méprisable, et ce serait
un poids éternel qui pèserait sur mon cœur, si, pour la honte du
métier des armes, je le voyais s’éloigner de nous impuni. Au lieu de
le laisser partir, vous me satisferez en le faisant pendre aux
créneaux. Ce sera une œuvre louable et digne de votre Seigneurie,
et de nature à servir d’exemple à tous les lâches. — »
Origile, sans sourciller, s’empressa d’appuyer les paroles de son
Martan. « — Non, — répond le roi, — son action n’est pas si grave
qu’à mon avis il y aille de la tête. Je veux, pour le punir, le livrer à la
population, pour qui ce sera une nouvelle fête. — » Aussitôt il fait
venir un de ses barons et lui dicte ses ordres.
Ce baron, après avoir pris avec lui un grand nombre d’hommes
d’armes, va se poster avec eux à la porte de la ville. Là, il les place
en silence, et il attend l’arrivée de Griffon. Aussitôt que ce dernier est
entré, il est saisi à l’improviste entre les deux ponts, et pris sans qu’il
puisse faire de résistance. Puis, après avoir été abreuvé d’outrages
et d’affronts, il est enfermé dans un obscur cachot jusqu’au jour.
A peine le soleil, à la crinière dorée, eut-il quitté le sein de
l’antique nourrice, et eut-il commencé à chasser l’ombre des plages
Alpines et à en éclairer les sommets, que le vil Martan, craignant
que Griffon ne dévoilât la vérité et ne rejetât la faute sur qui l’avait
commise, prit congé du roi et se hâta de partir,
Donnant pour excuse à l’insistance du roi, qu’il n’était pas
préparé à un tel spectacle. Outre le prix de sa prétendue victoire, le
roi reconnaissant lui avait fait de nombreux dons. Il lui avait même
remis un écrit authentique, où les éloges les plus grands lui étaient
prodigués. Laissons-le aller, car je vous promets qu’il recevra une
récompense selon son mérite.
Griffon, accablé d’injures, fut traîné sur la place qui se trouvait
pleine de monde. On lui avait enlevé son casque et sa cuirasse, on
l’avait laissé par dérision en chemise, et comme si on le conduisait à
la boucherie, on l’avait mis sur un char élevé, traîné lentement par
deux vaches exténuées par un long jeûne et par la fatigue.
Tout autour de l’ignoble attelage, les vieilles hideuses et les
putains éhontées accouraient, guidant tour à tour la marche du
cortège, et criblant le malheureux de leurs sarcasmes mordants. Les
petits enfants montraient encore plus d’acharnement, car outre les
paroles brutales et infamantes qu’ils lui adressaient, ils l’auraient tué
à coups de pierres, si des gens plus sages ne l’avaient défendu.
Les armes qui avaient causé la méprise dont il était victime,
attachées derrière le char, traînaient dans la fange, et c’était pour
elles un supplice mérité. Le char s’étant arrêté devant un tribunal,
Griffon s’entendit reprocher comme sienne l’ignominie d’un autre, et
vit sous ses yeux le crieur public l’annoncer en tous lieux.
Puis on l’exposa aux portes des temples, des maisons, où on ne
lui épargna aucune des plus honteuses, des plus viles qualifications.
Enfin la foule le conduisit hors de la ville, dont il fut banni et chassé
ignominieusement au milieu des huées, car on était loin de savoir
qui il était.
Sitôt qu’on lui eut délié les pieds et les mains, il saisit l’écu, il
empoigna l’épée, avec laquelle il arrosa longuement la terre. Il
n’avait devant lui ni lances ni épieux, car la populace insensée l’avait
suivi sans armes. Je remets le reste à l’autre chant, car il est temps,
seigneur, de finir celui-ci.
CHANT XVIII.