In the past houses have grown organically, like plants, from the ground upwards. But this house is different: it grows from the frame outwards, like an idea developing into a work of art from the central core of inspiration out into the material fact of realisation. Cement mixers churn and vomit. Men tramp back and forth with hods over their shoulders. Ladders stand as sharp diagonals to the rectilinear skeleton of the frame.
Simon Mawer, The Glass Room (Abacus: London, 2010) p. 46.
[T]here were also pavilions shaped like the character 田 (pronounced ‘tian’ meaning field), called the Pavilion of Still Waters; the character 工 (‘gong’ – work), called the Studio of Summer Coolness; and a pavilion shaped like the character 口 (‘you’ – mouth), called the Pavilion Containing Autumn.
Tom Wilkinson, Bricks & Mortals: Ten Great Buildings and the People They Made (Bloomsbury: London, 2014) p. 153.
Some have insisted that public space is a studied counterpoint to the city: a longing for nature in the denatured metropolis, morsels of a vanished country placidity and solitude for urban folk to snack on. Yet my claim is that the city is open, common and public by its very nature. People come not to be alone but to be together; to interact, exchange, trade, innovate and collaborate.
Benjamin R. Barber, ‘Public Spirited’, Architectural Review, 1404 (February 2014), 20.
At the sides of the highway, the children saw the forest: a thick growth of strange trees blocked the view of the plain. Their trunks were very very slender, erect or slanting; and their crowns were flat and outspread, revealing the strangest of shapes and the strangest colours when a passing car illuminated them with its headlights. Boughs in the form of a toothpaste tube, a face, cheese, hand, razor, bottle, cow, tire, all dotted with a foliage of letters of the alphabet.
Italo Calvino, Marcovaldo trans. William Weaver (London: Minerva 1993) p. 37