For [jane Austen And The Readers Of

The New Architecture And Urban Design Of Segregation Could Be Called Calvinist: They Reflect A Desire To Live In A World Of Predestination Rather Than Chance, To Strip The World Of Its Wide-open Possibilities And Replace Them With Freedom Of Choice In The Marketplace.

Walking Itself Is The Intentional Act Closest To The Unwilled Rhythms Of The Body, To Breathing And The Beating Of The Heart. It Strikes A Delicate Balance Between Working And Idling, Being And Doing. It Is A Bodily Labor That Produces Nothing But Thoughts, Experiences, Arrivals.

Worry Is A Way To Pretend That You Have Knowledge Or Control Over What You Don't--and It Surprises Me, Even In Myself, How Much We Prefer Ugly Scenarios To The Pure Unknown.

The Stars We Are Given. The Constellations We Make. That Is To Say, Stars Exist In The Cosmos, But Constellations Are The Imaginary Lines We Draw Between Them, The Readings We Give The Sky, The Stories We Tell.

What's Your Story? It's All In The Telling. Stories Are Compasses And Architecture; We Navigate By Them, And To Be Without A Story Is To Be Lost In The Vastness Of World That Spreads In All Directions Like Arctic Tundra Or Sea Ice. To Love Someone Is To Put Yourself In Their Place, We Say, Which Is To Put Yourself In Their Story, Or Figure Out How To Tell Yourself Their Story. Which Means That A Place Is A Story, And Stories Are Geography, And Empathy Is First Of All An Act Of Imagination, A Storyteller's Art, And Then A Way Of Traveling From Here To There.