arm, he has created a unit which regulates the whole work; and this work is on his own scale, to his own proportion, comfortable for him, to his measure. It is on the human scale. It is in harmonv with him: that is the main point.
But in deciding the form of the enclosure, the form of the hut, the situation of the altar and its accessories, he has had by instinct recourse to right angles—axes, the square, the circle. For he could not create anything otherwise which would give him the feeling that he was creating. For all these things—axes, circles, right angles—are geometrical truths, and give results that our eye can measure and recognize; whereas otherwise there would be only chance, irregularity and capriciousness. Geometry is the language of man.
But in deciding the relative distances of the various objects, he has discovered rhythms, rhythms apparent to the eye and clear in their relations with one another. And these rhythms arc at the very root of human activities. They resound in man by an organic inevitability, the same fine inevitability which causes the tracing out of the Golden Section by children, old men, savages and the learned.
A unit gives measure and unity; a regulating line is a basis of construction and a satisfaction.
***
Is it not true that most architects to-day have forgotten that great architecture is rooted in the very beginnings of humanity and that it is a direct function of human instinct?
When one looks at the little houses of the Paris suburbs, the villas on the Normandy dunes, the modern boulevards
