The Gaddis I like best to think of is a God-haunted aristocrat. Thrown pearl-clutching into a fallen world, he gathers himself and understands it as his task to recognize what instances of the eternal still obtain, among things melted into air.
What began in 1947 as a largely hopeful movement defined by wonder, openness, and concern for mankind, plunged into the paranoia-fueled mire that skeptics had always assumed the UFO movement to be.
Only now, fifty years after the formal end of the Brutalist movement, does it appear in the timeline of world architecture not so much as a steppingstone but as a stumbling block.
Mary Seacole’s account of her role in treating Cholera’s victims presents a portrait of one epidemic-stricken community that responds in ways both typical and, in our own pandemic times, uncomfortably familiar.