On Durability Mari Hvattum “An Attempt to Grasp Eternity” On November 9, 1993, the Mostar bridge fell. For months it had withstood heavy artillery, withstood in the same way that it had endured wars, floods, and disasters ever since its erection in 1566.1 But that afternoon it finally gave in; its collapse was broadcasted on television screens all over the world. Some days after the event, the Croatian journalist Slavenka Draculić picked up a newspaper with two pictures on the front cover. One showed the body of a woman, killed in the ongoing war; the second was a photograph of the destroyed bridge. To her own dismay, Draculić found herself crying as much over the bridge as she did over the dead woman. It made her feel slightly guilty, prompting her to reflect on her own reaction: “Why do I feel more pain looking at the image of the destroyed bridge than the image of the woman?” she asked herself, and continued: “Perhaps it is because I see my own mortality in the collapse of the bridge, not in the death of the woman.” Draculić added: “We expect people to die. We count on our own lives to end. The destruction of a monument […] is something else. The bridge, in all its beauty and grace, was built to outlive us; it was an attempt to grasp eternity. […] A dead woman is one of us – but the bridge is all of us, forever.”2 In a collection dedicated to the human in architecture, Draculić’s “eternity” offers, I believe, a poignant point of departure. We do indeed expect the built world to persist On November 9, 1993, the Mostar bridge fell “ ” AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 49 Hv a tt um longer than we ourselves do. People die, but the things they built tend to last a little longer. It is a twofold that says something crucial about the role of architecture. In the next few pages I want to use this particular kind of “eternity” as a point of departure for thinking about that which lasts and that which perishes, and the ways—or at least some of the ways—in which it happens. Relative Permanence Architecture may last longer than the people building it, but it is not eternal. Buildings are subject to all sorts of changes: weathering, war, neglect, changing uses and needs, economic up- and downturns, the force of gravity and the law of materials. In her book The Human Condition (1958), Hannah Arendt writes about the relative permanence that characterizes the human-made. “The durability of the human artifice is not absolute,” she points out, yet artifice gives to human life—fragile as it is—a certain stability and solidity.3 “The things of the world,” says Arendt, “have the function of stabilizing human life, and their objectivity lies in the fact that – in contradiction to the Heraclitian saying that man can never enter the same stream – men, their ever-changing nature not-withstanding, can retrieve their sameness, that is their identity, by being related to the same chair and the same table.”4 The durability of the human-made—the fact that the things we make last longer than us and are modelled on things that last longer still—is what for Arendt upholds a human world. At first glance, Arendt’s observation may seem staggeringly out of sync with her times. More often than not, twentieth century architects and artists took the exact opposite stance, celebrating the ephemeral over the durable and looking towards the future rather than the past. “Our houses will last less time than we do, and every generation will have to build its own city,” proclaimed Antonio Sant’Elia triumphantly in his manifesto for futurist architecture from 1914.5 To many modernists, ephemerality was a badge of honour, testifying to the dream of an architecture that responded strictly to the here and now. When the English architect William Holford characterized the modern monument as a “momentary crystallization of a scientific fact,” he testified to this belief.6 If the historical monument spoke of eternity, the modern monument, paradoxically, must speak strictly of the now. The fascination with the transient carries well into the present. A quick look at contemporary architectural publications, exhibitions, or student projects gives a strong sense that the ephemeral has a great deal more 50 isparchitecture.com appeal than the durable. But there is another side to the coin. For if modernity is “the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent,” as Charles Baudelaire famously stated, he also reminded us that its other half is “the eternal and the immutable.”7 And modernity has indeed sought eternity: the eternity of scientific facts, for instance, or the eternity of a petrified past, safely stowed away in the museum. In architecture, the desire for eternity is perhaps encountered most directly in modern preservation, with its dream to fixate the historic monument as an unchanging entity, available for contemporary veneration. I will try to steer clear of both poles in this dichotomy, addressing neither the ephemeral nor the eternal. Or rather, the “eternity” that I will speak of—the eternity that Draculić hinted at as well, I think—is not the pretend eternity of the musealized monument but rather what Hannah Arendt called durability, that is, the relative permanence of the human-made world. “The things of the world”, says Arendt, “have the function of stabilizing human life” “ ” Figure 1: Old Bridge in Mostar, ca. 1974 AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 51 Hv a tt um The Durability of Making Let me try to be a bit more specific. For what—if we stick to the realm of architecture—is it that endures? The buildings themselves? Their materials and constructions? Matter can certainly endure for a very long time, like the stones of the cave tombs in Barnenez, supposedly the oldest building in the world, or the tar-saturated wood of the nearly 1000 year old Norwegian stave churches. Ancient matter has a fascination of its own—Alois Riegl, for one, considered the appreciation of “age value” as a particularly modern sensibility.8 The memory of matter can endure even longer, like Aldo Rossi’s famous example in the Architettura della Citta of how traces of a Roman amphitheatre continue to structure the city, even when the original stones and bricks are long gone.9 Rossi drew on a long tradition of seeing type as a harbinger of durability, a dominant position in architectural thinking throughout much of the modern period.10 This is not, however, the only way to think about durability in architecture. Here I will focus on a little handful of thinkers who, each in their own way, proposed that what endures in architecture is not just matter, or type, but human action: ways of doing things, ways of making oneself at home in the world. If Hannah Arendt wrote of the reification of work into a world of things that in turn stabilizes and lends durability to human life, then we can perhaps speak of architecture as a reification of human action into built form. The three nineteenth century thinkers that I will discuss in the following—the German art historian Karl Bötticher; his fellow countryman, the architect Gottfried Semper; and the Norwegian ethnologist Eilert Sundt—did just that. And although only one of them could be considered an ethnologist by profession, all three drew on the new discipline when trying to understand the origin and development of architecture. In fact, their thinking on architecture could be seen, if not as fully fledged ethnologies (or anthropologies) of architecture, then at least as attempts to integrate the human into architectural thinking in ways that broke sharply with the academic neo-classicism of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. If theorists such as Marc-Antoine Laugier or Antoine Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy had envisioned architecture as an imitation of primordial architectural form—most famously the primitive hut—these mid-nineteenth century thinkers saw architecture as an imitation, rather, of human action. 52 isparchitecture.com Baumkultus der Hellenen Karl Bötticher is most famous for his books on Greek tectonics, published in several versions from the mid-1840s onwards.11 Here, however, I will discuss a much more idiosyncratic work by Bötticher, namely Der Baumkultus der Hellenen from 1856. Despite its small size and seemingly obscure topic, this book presented a fierce criticism of nineteenth century art history, which had, according to Bötticher, ignored the link between ritual action and architecture. The obsession with style and appearance had led to a neglect of the purpose for which man builds, he argued. In the eyes of the ancients, ritual practice could not be separated from the building or artefact accommodating it, and understanding ritual action was thus a prerequisite for understanding architecture, the Greek temple in particular.12 Cultic practice and its physical setting formed one indivisible knot of meaning and should be studied accordingly. That more holistic approach was exactly what Bötticher set out to achieve. He traced the decorative apparatus of the temple back to the ephemeral adornment of sacred trees: ribbons, bells, and garlands embellishing places for ritual and sacrifice. He considered such arrangements architectural pre-forms, motives that would later be reified into architectural form in the temple. “Bäumen seien die ersten Tempel der Gottheiten gewesen” (trees were the first temples of the dieties) he stated.13 By suggesting that the adornment of holy trees was the beginning of architecture, Bötticher invoked a notion of origin that broke sharply with neo- classical thinking. The origin of architecture, far from being found in architecture itself, resides in the ephemeral arrangements of worship.14 Bötticher’s thinking on the origin of architecture turns our conventional ideas about ephemerality and durability upside down. What lasts, here, is not matter, construction, or type, but ephemeral human AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 53 Hv a tt um acts, metamorphosed into the architecture of the temple. It is a delicious idea: the most durable thing in architecture is a ribbon or a bell, fluttering in the wind. Durable Metamorphoses Bötticher did not develop his ideas on ritual into a fully-fledged theory of architecture. As many scholars have pointed out, Der Baumkultus remains a somewhat isolated work within his oeuvre.15 For Bötticher’s contemporary, Gottfried Semper, however, the ritual origin of architecture would become a central premise. In Semper’s view, architecture is essentially about the stuff people do in order to make themselves at home in the world. And the most primordial way of doing that is to imitate. Primitive man imitates the order of the world around him, writes Semper: the rhythmical shifts of day and night, the cycle of the moon, the ebbs and flows of the sea. He continues, “[P]rimitive human beings […] delight in nature’s creative law as it gleams through the real world in the rhythmical sequence of space and time movements, in wreaths, a string of pearls, scrolls, round dances, the rhythmic tones attending them, the beat of an oar [...] These are the beginnings out of which music and architecture grew.”16 By imitating nature’s rhythms in the things he does and makes—in dance, knots, or tattoos on his skin—man makes for himself a specifically human realm. Architecture emerges gradually out of these ephemeral acts, as a metamorphosed reification of human action. The origin of architecture, then, is not found in building, but in man’s attempt at coming to terms with the world around him through rhythm and ritual. Weaving is one of Semper’s key examples of how the ritual act is translated into physical form.17 Beginning with the rhythmic movement imitating the order of the natural world, the weaver produces an enclosure—the wickerwork wall, for instance—which in turn establishes a human domain separated from the natural world. Weaving, then, is simultaneously a ritual imitation of cyclical time and the technical origin of the architectural wall. It runs through the history of architecture as a constant motif, yet is continuously transformed and metamorphosed into new guises through the process of material transformation, or Stoffwechsel, as Semper called it. The wickerwork enclosure, then, ossifies into Chinese lattice work, Assyrian stone reliefs, Pompeiian frescoes, and sixteenth century Portuguese tiles, continuing to echo even in the modern wallpaper. Through history, architecture retains its role as enclosure yet it is never exactly the same—it goes through a never-ending material 54 isparchitecture.com metamorphosis and carries all the memories of its previous stages with it, at any point of its development.18 So what is it that endures, here? Not matter, certainly: the material is but a medium in this metamorphic process. What endures is human work, ossified in a chain of ever-changing materialities. Rather than looking for the origin of architecture in architectural form, Semper located it in human action, thus overturning key principles of neo-classical thinking.19 In one of his late essays he stated this quite explicitly: “In a most general way, what is the material and subject matter of all artistic endeavour?” he asked, and answered, “I believe it is man in all his relations and connections to the world.”20 Patterns of Use The nineteenth-century discipline that most vigorously explored ‘man in all his relations and connections to the world’ was of course ethnology, or Kulturgeschichte as it would be called in German and Scandinavian-speaking countries. Both Semper and Bötticher were influenced by contemporary ethnology. Scholars have for instance pointed out Semper’s reliance on the German ethnologist Gustav Klemm, whose Allgemeine Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit (1843–1851) elaborated on the ritual origins of art and postulated dance and knots as the dual origin of architecture. Klemm described artefacts as “mimetic narratives” and as primary vehicles for man’s orientation in the world.21 If architects read ethnology, ethnologists also sometimes read architectural history. At least that is the case for the Norwegian ethnologist Eilert Sundt (1817–1875), a younger contemporary of Semper and Bötticher.22 Neither an architect nor a historian, Sundt nevertheless made a significant contribution to understanding the relationship between architectural form and human action. He What endures is human work, ossified in a chain of ever-changing materialities “ ” AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 55 Hv a tt um also gave quite an original answer to our initial question of what it is that endures in architecture. Sundt studied theology and earned his living as a Protestant minister. His reputation as pioneer of Norwegian social science, however, he earned from his empirically scrupulous studies of everything from marriage habits and mortality statistics to Norway’s gypsy population and the social conditions of the urban poor. Among his many books is one on vernacular architecture in the Norwegian countryside published in 1862. It is called Om Bygnings-Skikken paa Landet i Norge, a title perhaps best translated as “On the manner of building in the Norwegian countryside.”23 On his many travels up and down the country, Sundt tells his readers, he had been struck by the underlying regularity of vernacular buildings. Although each hamlet, farm, and building was to some extent different from every other, they all adhered to a common pattern. The regularity was noticeable not least in the organization of the domestic interior. Sundt observed how building form, furniture, and permanent elements such as fireplaces, windows, and entrances followed the exact same template, reflecting the social structure of rural Norwegian society. “I cannot tell how surprised I was when I first realized this house custom [hus-skikk]” he wrote: Once you have gotten to know how things are arranged in one house, you know for certain how all houses of a similar kind are organized. When I now travel through the Gudbrandsdalen region and see an old-fashioned house, it is as if I can see through the walls and know, that here, by the door, stands the great cabinet; there in the corner is the main seat; in the other corner, the master bed, etc. It is as if the houses were made of glass.24 While in the city, people build “after their own heart,” Sundt writes; in the countryside, building is governed by ancient traditions that regulate not so much the building itself as the way of life that in turn regulates building. Sundt called this reciprocal process ‘skikk.’ It is a tricky concept to translate, but comes close to tradition, or custom. ‘Skikk’ refers to ways of doing things, ways of arranging social phenomena into certain patterns that can be embodied in buildings and things. It is tempting to adopt Arendt’s vocabulary: ‘skikk’ is human work transformed into a built world. The durable factor in Sundt’s architectural analysis was not wood or stone, but ways of translating life into recognizable—and indeed durable—configurations. In an almost proto-structuralist fashion he describes how the ‘skikk’ governs life, how life governs architectural form, and how architectural form in its turn gives stability to life. It is a slow cycle that is not unchangeable but nonetheless relatively stable. Interestingly, Sundt sees this mimetic stability between life and artifice 56 isparchitecture.com as a waning phenomenon. Modern man does not adhere to any ‘skikk,’ he writes. In the modern city, houses reflect individual habits and desires, and have thus no durability outwith the life of the individual: “It is different in the cities: the houses are more singular and the people as well – each with their own habits and needs, […] one in this way, the other in that way.”25 Modernity, for Sundt, represents a break with the durability of ‘skikk.’ It is replaced by individualist transience, but also, we may add, by a compensatory search for eternity. For Sundt’s farmhouses, that eternity came in the form of the museum, where so many of the interiors he studied would end up. Mimesis of Praxis “[B]uildings and paintings and poetic texts, as much as rituals, are cables that hold a society together through time” write Alexander Nagel and Christopher S. Wood in their book Anachronic Renaissance.26 Nagel and Wood are particularly interested in artworks that—explicitly or implicitly—evoke multiple temporalities, like the way Roman spolia in early Christian churches acted as veritable time machines, connecting and doubling time and tying the present to multiple pasts “like a homeopathic remedy for discontinuity.”27 In the modern city, houses reflect individual habits and desires, and have thus no durability without the life of the individual “ ” Figure 2: Section of farmhouse, Norway taken from Sundts book AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 57 Hv a tt um Semper’s material metamorphosis, Bötticher’s reified ritual arrangements, and Sundt’s long-enduring “skikk” are all examples of such multi-temporal conditions. Their durability has nothing to do with the fixed eternity of the museum or the immobilized past of the historical monument. Instead, all these examples demonstrate architecture’s capacity to accommodate and preserve human action, giving shape to our attempts at making ourselves at home in the world. Aristotle said that the tragedy was “not an imitation of men but of actions and of life.”28 Much the same could be said for architecture in the way I have outlined it here, as a “mimesis of praxis,” it is an imitation of human action. All of Us Back to the question: What is it that endures in architecture? A brief glance at Semper’s theory of Stoffwechsel, Bötticher’s ephemeral tree decorations, or Sundt’s “skikk” has taught us that it is neither matter nor form. It is rather—very much like Hannah Arendt proposed—the fact that work and works tie us to a shared duration, not a singular, monolithic past, but a heterogeneous, multi-temporal, contentious past. Perhaps that can help us understand Slavenka Draculić’s reaction to the destruction of the Mostar bridge. “Why do I feel more pain looking at the image of the destroyed bridge than the image of the woman?” she asked herself, emphatically stating that while “the dead woman was one of us, the bridge was all of us, forever.” In what way was the bridge all of us? By means of its symbolic role as a bridge between East and West, Muslim and Christian—a sort of super-symbol of a multi-ethnic Balkan? Perhaps, but that is not the whole story. As the architectural historians Hans-Henrik Egede-Nissen and Emily Macas have both pointed out in their respective PhD dissertations, this symbolism is not uncontroversial.29 Political scientist Heiko Wimmen put it even more strongly: “This popular image probably reveals more about the Western need to reduce a complex and multi-layered structure to clear-cut oppositions, which can then be, as it were, bridged.”30 It seems to me that Draculić’s “all of us” may point to something more than simply the bridge as a symbol of ethnic conflict and its potential reconciliation. Rather than a horizontal “us,” she evoked a vertical “us” linked through time as much as through geographical or ethnic divides. The bridge was an attempt to grasp eternity, she wrote—a complex, contested, and relative eternity in this case, but nevertheless an eternity involving “all of us.” It was perhaps this contentious but significant common-ness that made UNESCO forego their usual requirement of material authenticity and inscribe the reconstructed Mostar bridge into 58 isparchitecture.com the world heritage list. What lasts in architecture is not stone, but rather memories, rituals, dreams, and acts metamorphosed into matter and form a thousand times over. At a time when we seem to oscillate between a fascination for ephemerality and a longing for museum-like eternity, it may be good to keep this relative permanence in mind, particularly when thinking about architecture and its relationship to the human. Endnotes [1] The Mostar bridge was erected for Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent in 1566 by the architect Mimar Hajrudin. The bridge was hit several times during the 1992-95 Bosnian war, both by the Serbian-backed Yugoslav Peoples’ Army (JNA) and the Croatian Defense Council (HVO). For more information, see “Nomination Dossier: The Old City of Mostar,” UNESCO, January 2005, http:// whc.unesco.org/uploads/nominations/946rev. pdf. I am indebted to Hans-Henrik Egede-Nissen, whose Ph.D. dissertation “Autentisitetens relevans: på sporet av et endret fokus for kulturminnevernet,” presents a thorough analysis of the destruction and reconstruction of the Mostar bridge. See Hans- Henrik Egede-Nissen, “Autentisitetens relevans: på sporet av et endret fokus for kulturminnevernet” (Ph.D. dissertation, Oslo School of Architecture and Design, 2014), 175-234. [2] Slavenca Draculić, “Falling Down. A Mostar Bridge Elegy,” The New Republic, December 13, 1993. [3] Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 136. [4] Ibid., 137. [5] Antonio Sant’Elia, “L’Architettura Futurista: Manifesto” (Milan, July 1914). English translation in Ulrich Conrads (ed.), Programmes and Manifestoes What lasts in architecture is not stone, but rather memories, rituals, dreams, and acts metamorphosed into matter and form a thousand times over “ ” AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 59 Hv a tt um on 20th-century Architecture (London: Lund Humphries, 1970), 38. On the convoluted history of the manifesto and its reception, see Esther da Costa Meyer, The Work of Antonio Sant’Elia: Retreat into the Future (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 141-168. [6] William Holford, “In Search of a New Monumentality,” Architectural Review vol 104, no 621 (September 1948): 125 [7] Charles Baudelaire, Painters of Modern Life, trans. J. Mayne (London: Phaidon, 1995), 12. [8] Alois Riegl, Der moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen und seine Entstehung (Wien und Leipzig: Braumüller, 1903), 9 and 16-18. [9] Aldo Rossi, The Architecture of the City, trans. D. Ghirardo and J. Ockman (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1982), 89. [10] See, for example, Anthony Vidler, “From the Hut to the Temple: Quatremère de Quincy and the Idea of Type,” in The Writing of the Walls: Architectural Theory in the Late Enlightenment (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1987), 147-64; Anthony Vidler, “The Third Typology”, Oppositions 7 (1976): 1-4; and Adrian Forty, “Type,” in Words and Buildings: A Vocabulary of Modern Architecture (London: Thames & Hudson, 2000), 304-11. [11] Karl Bötticher, Die Tektonik der Hellenen, vols. 1-2 (Potsdam: Riegel, 1844-1852). Second, revised edition: Berlin: Ernst & Korn, 1874-1881. [12] Karl Bötticher, “Einleitung,” in Der Baumkultus der Hellenen nach den gottesdienstlichen Gebräuchen und den überlieferten Bildwerken dargestellt (Berlin: Weidmann, 1856), 1-6. [13] Bötticher, “Umriss des hellenischen Baumkultus,” in Der Baumkultus der Hellenen nach den gottesdienstlichen Gebräuchen und den überlieferten Bildwerken dargestellt (Berlin: Weidmann, 1856), 9. [14] Ibid., 7-25 [15] See, for example, Hartmut Mayer, Die Tektonik der Hellenen: Kontext und Wirkung der Architekturtheorie von Karl Bötticher (Stuttgart and London: Menges, 2004), 16. [16] Gottfried Semper, “Prolegomenon” in Der Stil in den technischen und tektonischen Künsten; oder, Praktische Aesthetik: Ein Handbuch für Techniker, Künstler und Kunstfreunde, vol. 1 (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag für Kunst und Wissenschaft, 1860), xxi-xxii. English translation in Gottfried Semper, Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts; or, Practical Aesthetics, trans. and ed. H. F. Mallgrave and Michael Robinson (Los Angeles: Getty 2004), 82. [17] Semper presented his ideas on weaving in several places, see, 60 isparchitecture.com for example, Der Stil §54 and §57-61, as well as “The Four Elements of Architecture,” in The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings, trans. and ed. Harry F. Mallgrave and Wolfgang Herrmann (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 103-104. [18] A poignant presentation of Semper’s notion of Stoffwechsel and Bekleidung is found in §66, “Excursus über das Tapetzierwesen der Alten,” in Der Stil in den technischen und tektonischen Künsten, vol. 1 (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag für Kunst und Wissenschaft, 1860), 276-322. [19] This point is elaborated in J. Rykwert, “Gottfried Semper and the Conception of Style,” in Gottfried Semper und die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, eds. A. M. Vogt, C. Reble, and M. Frölich (Basel: Birkhaüser, 1976), 68-81. [20] Gottfried Semper, “On Architectural Styles,” in The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings, trans. and ed. Harry F. Mallgrave and Wolfgang Herrmann (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 269. [21] Gustav Klemm, Allgemeine Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1843), 2-3. [22] The links between Semper and Sundt have been explored by the Swedish art historian Rudolf Zeitler in the unpublished lecture “Om Eilert Sundt og G. Semper” (1979, typewritten manuscript held at the Norwegian Directorate for Cultural Heritage Archive in Oslo), though from quite a different vantage point than the present comparison. [23] Eilert Sundt, Om Bygnings-Skikken paa Landet i Norge (Christiania: Malling, 1862). [24] Ibid., §5, 14. In the original text: Jeg kan ikke sige, hvor jeg blev forundret, da jeg første gang blev opmærksom på og opfattede denne hus-skik. [...] Det er så i disse bygder, at når man først har gjort sig fortrolig med hver tings plads i et hus, så veed man med det samme, hvordan det er i alle de andre huse af samme bygningsmåde. Når jeg nu kjører igjennem Gudbrandsdalen og i forbifarten ser på et hus, at det hører til dette gammeldags slag, med stue og kleve, hvilket er tilfælde med de allerfleste, og når jeg fremdeles ser, hvordan huset er stillet, eller hvad der er fremsiden og bagsiden - hvilket kan skjønnes på dørens eller vinduernes eller skorstenspibens plads, - så kan jeg ligesom se ind igjennem væggen og vide, at her ved døren står fremskabet, der ved hjørnet er høisædet, i hjørnet hist borte står husbondens seng o.s.v. Det er, som om husene skulde være af glas. [25] Ibid., 14-15. In the original text: Anderledes i byerne: husene mere ulige og menneskene ligeså - med ulige vaner og fordringer, mere udviklet forskjellighed i sind og tænkemåde, en så, en anden så. I den fjerne landsbygd kan en velstående og en fattig bonde have det så temmelig ens i sit hus og sit daglige liv, i hovedstaden derimod kommer forskjellen mellem den AP . vol 3 . No 1 . 2017 61 Hv a tt um rige og den fattige, den dannede og den udannede o.s.v. tilsyne på hvert punkt. Der er vexel-virkning her: under bylivets bevægede forholde kunne de forskjellige anlæg og sindsretninger udvikles frit, og frit sees da enhver at indrette sit hus og sit hele husliv, som han bedst veed og kan; men de udvortes forskjelligheder, som herved opstå, skabe igjen forskjellige vaner, tilbøieligheder, lidenskaber, og hermed påskyndes hin sindets og tænkemådens udvikling, så forskjellen mellem de enkelte mennesker bliver altid større og større. [26] Alexander Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2010), 15. [27] Ibid., 183. [28] Aristotle, Poetics, trans. J. Hutton (New York: Norton, 1982), 1450a. [29] Egede-Nissen, Autentisitetens relevans, 210. Emily Gunzburg Macas, “The Old Bridge,” in Representing Competing Identitites, (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 2007), 198-255. [30] Heiko Wimmen, “New Nations, Imagined Borders: Engineering Public Space in Post-War Mostar, Bosnia-Hercegovina” (paper presented at the Beirut Conference for Public Spheres, Beirut, Lebanon, October 22-24, 2004), quoted in Macas, Representing Competing Identitites, 217. 0-Front Matter 1-Editorial 2-Harries and Scruton 3-Pedragosa 4-Hvattum 5-Dicks 6- Roussel 7-Back Matter