I am a Registered Architect in New York State. I am presenting in my own name.

I grew up in Greenwich Village and now live in the neighborhood, at Stewart House, 70 East 10th Street. My family relocated from the outer Boroughs to Manhattan when I was eight years old, and we moved into the NYU faculty housing at 29 Washington Square West. Of course, back then, in 1943, NYU did not yet own the building: it was known for its wide variety of Greenwich Village residents.

One Friday in 1945, as I got into the elevator on my way to the City and Country School, I noticed a tall, matronly lady, with a hat. She nodded toward my overnight case -- I was spending the weekend at my cousin’s house -- and asked if I would care to share her taxi as she rode uptown? Of course, I refused. I had been warned about elderly women by my mother -- so I never did have that taxi-ride chat with Eleanor Roosevelt. The memory lingers on ++ but this building no longer accommodates the public. It houses NYU Deans and the First Lady’s connection has not been acknowledged with a Plaque, or otherwise, to my knowledge.

Memories are all that we have left of much too much of Greenwich Village. Modernization, gentrification, institutional expansion and urban renewal has taken its ugly toll. And what a tale of terror this renovation tells, as New York University continues to convert Greenwich Village into its private urban campus !

I have a clear memory of the small row of brick-faced four and five storey houses on the south side of West 4th street, near the corner of MacDougal Street, facing Washington Square Park. Just a few steps west of the Judson Memorial Church. I remember entering one building and walking down the narrow, dark, first floor hallway to the rear door. Then passing through and emerging into a secret, hidden garden, a mid-block oasis, open to the sun !

And I remember the small, brick lean-to studio, its tall glass A-frame roof facing north; inviting the penetration of perfect artist’s light. I knew this to be the ‘atelier’ of William Auerbach-Levy, the noted portraitist, whose characatures illustrated hundreds of Profile articles in the New Yorker, over many years. His studio is gone like a cloud, and left not a plaque behind.

All is gone, as this urban curiosity was torn down by NYU to make way for the pseudo-Colonial brick structure of the NYU Law School.

Auerbach-Levy’s studio, which I remember so well, was built into the rear of the houses situated on the north side of West 3rd Street. What I did not know was that these houses on West 3rd Street included the house and garden where E. A. Poe lived and wrote “The Cask of Amontillado,” edited his “Broadway Journal,” and conversed with the young Walt Whitman, in 1845, exactly one century before.

Although the structure located at 85 West 3rd Street was never a significant architectural beauty, (as is the Merchant’s House) the building has immense literary value, tremendous historical value, and retains a measure of redeeming architectural value. Each of these alone would suggest preservation to an honorable University or seat of learning.

The original fenestration of the Poe House has been preserved (even if inappropriate details have been stuck on). There is a curved wooden staircase, with a handsome wooden balustrade on the interior, and other period details, not least of which is the garden space to the east.

My training in the School of Architecture, Preservation and Planning at Columbia University (Master of Architecture, 1975) impels me to suggest, plead and insist that any plans for this important keepsake building, and its neighbors, which embody a significant connection to our common heritage, be treated with reverence, and be performed with due deference to literary, historical, cultural and architectural values. One would think that this need not be told to a School of Law, a discipline built on a bedrock of tradition, precedence and continuity.

Would that the entire building could be renovated and established as a Museum to Edgar Allen Poe, surely our most famous, most melancholy 19th Century poet ! A man whose life foreshadows the search for identity which so many -- youth, students, artists -- have come to the Village to pursue.

At the least, the facade should be preserved, renovated, and incorporated into whatever new building is planned. (As is being done with several vintage theaters in the new Times Square, including the nine story facade of the Empire Theater, on West 41st Street..) Interior details should be creatively incorporated into whatever new use is proposed . The small garden should be preserved and its restful purpose retained. (This may even permit NYU additional bulk.)

You see, NYU owes a great, largely unacknowledged, debt to the past, present and future residents of the Village -- and to their ‘ghosts.”

This debt could, perhaps, best be repaid and redeemed by the creation, at this site, of a living tribute to Poe through the means of a Poe library, a Poe reading room and/or a Poe lounge, with provision for the occasional use by Poe aficionados. This would be suitable restitution, in some small way, for the benefits NYU has derived from the Village and its heritage.

Or, to paraphrase our poet, has, “the reign of manners ... long ceased”?


The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door-- Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-- Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore!

Sent to Shay, January 25, 2001