Whether Armilla is like this because it is unfinished or because it has been
demolished, whether the cause is some enchantment or only a whim, I do not know.
The fact remains that it has no walls, no ceilings, no floors: it has nothing
that makes it seem a city except the water pipes that rise vertically where the
houses should be and spread out horizontally where the floors should be: a
forest of pipes that end in taps, shouwers, spouts, overflows. Against the sky a
lavabo's white stands out, or a bathtub, or some other porcelain, like late
fruit still hanging from the boughs. You would think that the plumbers had
finished their job and gone away before the bricklayers arrived; or else their
hydraulic systems, indestructable, had survived a catastrophe, an earthquake, or
the corrosion of termites.
Abandoned before or after it was inhabited, Armilla cannot be called
deserted. At any hour, raising your eyes among the pipes, you are likely to
glimpse a young woman, or many young women, slender, not tall of stature,
luxuriating in the bathtubs or arching their backs under the showers suspended
in the void, washing or drying or perfuming themselves, or combing their long
hair at a mirror. In the sun, the threads of water fanning from the showers
glisten, the jets of the taps, the spurts, the splases, the sponges' suds.
I have come to this explaination: the streams of water channeled in the pipes of Armilla have remained in th posession of nymphs and naiads. Accustomed to traveling along underground veins, they found it easy to enter the new aquatic realm, to burst from multiple fountains, to find new mirrors, new games, new ways of enjoying the water. Their invasion may have driven out the human beings, or Armilla may have been built by humans as a votive offering to win the favor of the nymphs, offended at the misuse of the waters. In any case, now they seem content, these maidens: in the morning you hear them singing.
Cities & Desire 5
From there, after six days and seven nights, you arrive at Zobeide, the
white city, well exposed to the moon, with streets wound about themselves as in
a skein. They tell this tale of its foundation: men of various nations had an
identical dream. They saw a woman running at night through an unknown city; she
was seen from behind, with long hair, and she was naked. They dreamed of
pursuing her. As they twisted and turned, each of them lost her. After the
dream, they set out in search of that city; they never found it, but they found
one another; they decided to build a city like the one in the dream. In laying
out the streets, each followed the course of his pursuit; at the spot where they
had lost the fugitive's trail, they arranged spaces and walls differently from
the dream, so she would be unable to escape again.
This was the city of Zobeide, where they settled, waiting for that scene to
be repeated one night. None of them, asleep or awake, ever saw the woman again.
The city's streets were streets where they went to work every day, with no link
any more to the dreamed chase. Which, for that matter, had long been forgotten.
New men arrived from other lands, having had a dream like theirs, and in the
city of Zobeide, they recognized something from the streets of the dream, and
they changed the positions of arcades and stairways to resemble more closely the
path of the pursued woman and so, at the spot where she had vanished, there
would remain no avenue of escape.
The first to arrive could not understand what drew these people to Zobeide, this ugly city, this trap.
Cities & Eyes 5
When you have forded the river, when you have crossed the mountain pass, you
suddently find before you the city of Moriana, its alabaster gates transparent
in the sunlight, its coral columns supporting pediments encrusted with
serpentine, its villas all of glass like aquariums where the shadows of dancing
girls with silvery scales swim beneath the medusa-shaped chandeliers. If this is
not your first journey, you already know that cities like this have an obverse:
you have only to walk a semi-circle and you will come into view of Moriana's
hidden face, an expanse of rusting sheet metal, sackcloths, planks bristling
with spikes, pipes black with soot, piles of tins, behind walls with fading
signs, frames of staved-in straw chairs, ropes good only for hanging oneself
from a rotten beam.
From one part to the other, the city seems to continue, in perspective, multiplying its repretory of images: but instead it has no thickness, it consists only of a face and an obverse, like a sheet of paper, with a figure on either side, which can neither be seperated nor look at each other.
Trading Cities 4
In Ersilia, to establish the relationships that sustain the city's life, the
inhabitants stretch strings from the corners of the houses, white or black or
gray or black-and-white according to whether they mark a relationdhip of blood,
of trade, authority, agency. When the strings become so numerous that you can no
longer pass among them, the inhabitants leave: the houses are dismantled; only
the strings and their supports remain.
From a mountainside, camping with their household goods, Ersilia's refugees
look at the labyrinth of taut strings and poles that rise in the plain. That is
the city of Ersilia still, and they are nothing.
They rebuild Ersilia elsewhere. They weave a similar pattern of strings
which they would like to be more complex and at the same time more regular than
the other. Then they abandon it and take themselves and their houses still
Thus, when traveling in the territory of Ersilia, you come upon the ruins of abandoned cities, without the walls which do not last, without the bones of the dead which the wind rolls away: spiderwebs of intricate relationships seeking a form.
Cities & The Sky 3
Those who arrive at Thekla can see little of the city, beyond the plank
fences, the sackcloth screens, the scaffoldings, the metal armatures, the wooden
catwlks hanging from ropes or supported by sawhorses, the ladders, the trestles.
If you ask "Why is Thekla's construction taking such a long time?" the
inhabitants continue hoisting sacks, lowering leaded strings, moving long bruses
up and down, as they answer "So that it's destruction cannot begin." And if
asked whether they fear that, once the scaffoldings are removed, the city may
begin to crumble and fall to pieces, they add hastily, in a whisper, "Not only
If, dissatisfied with the answers, someone puts his eye to a crack in a
fence, he sees cranes pulling up other cranes, scaffoldings that embrace other
scaffoldings, beams that prop up other beams. "What meaning does your
construction have?" he asks. "What is the aim of a city under construction
unless it is a city? Where is the plan you are following, the blueprint?"
"We will show it to you as soon as the working day is over; we cannot
interrupt our work now," they answer.
Cities & The Dead
What makes Argia different from other cities is that it has earth instead of
air. The streets are completely filled with dirt, clay packs the rooms to the
ceiling, on every stair another stairway is set in negative, over the roofs of
the houses hang layers of rocky terrain like skies with clouds. We do not know
if the inhabitants can move about the city, widening the worm tunnels and the
crevices where roots twist: the dampness destroys people's bodies, and they have
scant strength; everyone is better off remaining still, prone; anyway, it is
From up here, nothing of Argia can be sen; some say "It's down below there," and we can only believe them. The place is deserted. At night, putting your ear to the ground, you can sometimes hear a door slam.
Hidden Cities 1
In Olinda, if you go out with a magnifying glass and hunt carefully, you may
find somewhere a point no bigger than the head of a pin which, if you look at it
slightly enlarged, reveals within itself the roofs, the antennas, the skylights,
the gardens, the pools, the streamers across the streets, the kiosks in the
squeares, the horse-racing track. That point does not remain there: a year later
you will find it the size of half a lemon, then as large as a mushroom, then a
soup plate. And then it becomes a full-size city, enclosed within the earlier
city: a new city that forces its way ahead in the earlier city and presses its
way toward the outside.
Olinda is certainly not the only city that grows in concentric circles, like tree trunks which each year add one more ring. But in other cities there remains, in the center, the old narrow girlde of the walls from which the withered spires rise, the towers, the tiled roofs, the domes, while the new quarters sprawl around them like a loosened belt. Not Olinda: the old walls expand bearing the old quarters with them, enlarged but maintaining their proportions an a broader horizon at the edges of the city; they surround the slightly newer quarters, which also grew up on the margins and became thinner to make room for still more recent ones pressing from inside; and so, on and on, to the heart of the city, a totally new Olinda which, in its reduced dimensions retains the features and the flow of lymph of the first Olinda and of all the Olindas that have blossomed one from the other; and within this innermost circle there are always blossoming--though it is hard to discern them--the next Olinda and those that will grow after it.