And finally, today, they build walls of reinforced concrete instead of brick. But the narrow wooden rim, lonesome, senseless, that seems to come out of nowhere and is related only to the window frame, is left as a remnant of the custom. Isn’t that exactly the same as the history of the shirt, which first began as a wide, visible garment with neck and hand frills? Later it disappeared beneath the frock coat, but collar and cuff still peaked forth beneath the neck and sleeves of the suit. Then the collar and cuff were separated from the shirt, and finally, prior to any further improvement, the removable collar and cuff became solitary symbols of culture, which, in order to demonstrate proper manners, were buttoned onto a hidden undergarment.
This discovery — that wooden doors are removable cuffs — must be credited to the famous architect who realized that since man is born in a clinic and dies in a hospital, he likewise requires aseptic restraint in the design of his living space. We call this sort of phenomenon a spontaneous architectural development born out of the spirit of the times; but evidently things are a little difficult nowadays. The man of former times, whether lord of the manor or city-dweller, lived in his house; his station in life manifested itself therein, had accumulated there. In the Bierdermeier period you still held open house; today we merely imitate the custom. Back then your house served the purpose of maintaining appearances for which there is always money at hand; today, however, there are other objects that satisfy this same purpose: travel, cars, sports, winter vacations, suites in luxury hotels. Nowadays, the fantasy of showing what you are is lived out in this way, and if a rich man nevertheless builds himself a house, there is something artificial, something private in the act, which is no longer the fulfillment of a universal wish. And how then should there be doors if there is no “house”?! The only original door conceived by our time is the glass revolving door of the hotel and the department store.
In former times, the door, as part of the whole, represented the entire house, just as the house one owned and the house which one was having built were intended to show the social standing of its owner. The door was an entrance into a society of privilege, which was opened or shut in the face of the new arrival, depending on who he was; generally it decided his fate. However, it was likewise perfectly well-suited to the little man who didn’t count for much outside, but who behind his door could immediately play god. For this reason, the door was cherished by all and fulfilled a living purpose in the popular imagination. The noble folk could open or shut their doors, and the burgher could moreover keep knocking when the door is already open. He could also force it open. He could transact his business in the doorway, as it were. He could turn away from his own or a stranger’s door. He could shut the door in someone’s face, could show him to the door; indeed, he could even throw him out the door: This was an abundance of relations with respect to life, and they demonstrate that excellent mixture of realism and symbolism that language achieves when something is very important to us.
The great age of doors is behind us! It may be very spectacular to call out to someone that you are going to throw them out the door, but who has ever really seen someone “flying” out? Even if it is attempted, the procedure seldom still has that one-sided quality which constitutes its charm, for the required competence and strength is sadly lacking nowadays. We don’t even slam the door in anyone’s face anymore, but rather refuse to receive the telephoned announcement of an unwanted visit in advance; and to sweep in front of one’s door — that is, to mind one’s own business — has become an inconceivable suggestion. These have long since become unreasonable figures of speech and are nothing now but sweet illusions that creep up on us with a sentimental longing every time we look at an old-fashioned portal. It is the fading history surrounding a hole that, for the time being, has still been left open to the carpenter.
Monuments
Aside from the fact that you never know whether to refer to them as monuments or memorials, monuments do have all kinds of other characteristics. The most salient of these is a bit contradictory, namely, that monuments are so conspicuously inconspicuous. There is nothing in this world as invisible as a monument. They are no doubt erected to be seen — indeed to attract attention. But at the same time they are impregnated with something that repels attention, causing the glance to roll right off, like water droplets off an oilcloth, without even pausing for a moment. You can walk down the same street for months, know every address, every show window, every policeman along the way, and you won’t even miss a dime that someone dropped on the sidewalk; but you are very surprised when one day, staring up at a pretty chambermaid on the first floor of a building, you notice a not-at-all-tiny metal plaque on which, engraved in indelible letters, you read that from eighteen hundred and such and such to eighteen hundred and a little more the unforgettable So-and-so lived and created here.
Many people have this same experience even with larger-than-life-sized statues. Every day you have to walk around them, or use their pedestal as a haven of rest, you employ them as a compass or a distance marker; when you happen upon the well-known square, you sense them as you would a tree, as part of the street scenery, and you would be momentarily stunned were they to be missing one morning: But you never look at them, and do not generally have the slightest notion of whom they are supposed to represent, except that maybe you know if it’s a man or a woman.
It would be wrong to let ourselves be deceived by certain exceptions to the rule. As, for instance, those few statues which, Baedecker in hand, we seek out, like the Gattamelata or the Colleoni, this being a very particular example; or memorial towers that block off an entire landscape; or monuments that form a series, like the Bismark monuments scattered all over Germany.
Such forceful monuments do exist; and then there are also those that embody the expression of a living thought or feeling: It is, however, the purpose of most ordinary monuments to first conjure up a remembrance, or to grab hold of our attention and give a pious bent to our feelings, for this, it is assumed, is what we more or less need; and it is in this, their prime purpose, that monuments always fall short. They repel the very thing they are supposed to attract. One cannot say they “de-notice” us, they elude our perceptive faculties: This is a down-right vandalism-inciting quality of theirs!
This can no doubt be explained. Anything that endures over time sacrifices its ability to make an impression. Anything that constitutes the walls of our life, the backdrop of our consciousness, so to speak, forfeits its capacity to play a role in that consciousness. A constant, bothersome sound becomes inaudible after several hours. Pictures that we hang up on the wall are in a matter of days soaked up by the wall; only very rarely do we stand before them and look at them. Half-read books once replaced among the splendid rows of books in our library will never be read to the end. Indeed, it is enough for some sensitive souls to buy a book whose beginning they like, and then never pick it up again. In this case, the attitude is already becoming outright aggressive; one can, however, also follow its inexorable course in the realm of feelings, in which case it is always aggressive, in the family life, for instance. Here the firm bond of marriage is distinguished from the fickleness of desire by the much-repeated sentence: Do I have to tell you every fifteen minutes that I love you?! And to what heightened degree must these psychological detriments of durability manifest themselves in bronze and marble!