Central Park South, New York, a hall on the first floor. It was evening. Before me, framed by the soaring, shining, stony city, lay the huge wooded rectangle of the park. Great cities are based on great, clear, well-ordered concepts, I thought. The rectangular pattern of the streets, the diagonal line of Broadway, the coastal lines of the peninsula. The buildings, packed densely in their right-angled grid, looming up in the sky, individualistic, in love with themselves, anonymous, reckless, tamed by the straitjacket of the grid. Next is BookClipping7.