A View From Above And Below

E. B. White's writing seems to present the city as some kind of irresistable amusement park where some rides are safer than others but all are undeniably exciting if only for their eccentricity. And just as amusement parks are carefully crafted for optimum enjoyment, the city is presumably crafted for optimum practicality. Yet Certeau and E.B. White both paint a more discombobulated view where the city is most alive in the spaces for which function was unaccounted for, "Finally, the functionalist organization, by privileging progress (i.e., time), causes the condition of its own possibility - space itself - to be forgotten; space thus becomes the blind spot in a scientific and political technology." Approproately, it seems to be within these forgotten spaces that White's stories thrive. For example, the unlikely success of an ailanthus seed on a building ledge, "Encouraged by light rains and heavy sootfall, it germinated. Its root immediately struck solid rock, turned quickly, and found two dead vine leaves, a cigarette butt, and a paper clip. Here were the perfect conditions for ailanthus growth." New Yorkers seem predisposed to thrive in the nether regions of the city; they appreciate the structure and basic outline of the urban blueprints but find true comfort in making the city work for them.