The Arcades Project - Operi

As is sonletimes the case with very deep, unexpected impressions, however, the
shock was too violent: the impression, if! may say so, struck with such force that
it broke through the bottom of my consciousness and for years lay irrecoverable
somewhere in the darkness. I knew only that it had to do with "Bullrich Salt" and
that the original warehouse for this seasoning was a small cellar on Flottwell
Street, where for years I had circumvented the temptation to get out at this point
and inquire ab out the poster. There I traveled on a colorless Sunday afternoon in
that northern Moabit, a part of town that had already once appeared to me as
though built by ghostly hands for just this time of day. That was when, four years
ago, I had come to Liitzow Street to pay customs duty, according to the weight of
its enameled blocks of houses, on a china porcelain city which I had had sent
from Rome. There were omens then along the way to sigoal the approach of a
momentous afternoon. And, in fact, it ended with the story of the discovery of an
arcade, a story that is too berlinisch to be told just now in this Parisian space of
remembrance. Prior to this incident, however, I stood with my two beautiful
companions in front of a miserable cafe, whose window display was enlivened by
an arrangement of sigoboards. On one of these was the legend "Bullrich Salt." It
contained nothing else besides the words; but around these written characters
there was suddenly and effortlessly configured that desert landscape of the
poster. I had it once more. Here is what it looked like. In the foreground, a
horse-drawn wagon was advancing across tl,e desert. It was loaded with sacks
bearing the words "Bullrich Salt." One of these sacks had a hole, from which salt
had already trickled a good distance on the ground. In the background of the
desert landscape, two posts held a large sigo with the words "Is the Best." But
what ab out the trace of salt down the desert trail? It formed letters, and these
letters formed a word, the word "Bullrich Salt:' Was not the preestablished
harmony of a Leibniz mere child's play compared to this tightly orchestrated
predestination in the desert? And didn't that poster furnish an image for things
that no one in this mortal life has yet experienced? An image of the everyday in
Utopia? [Gla,4]
"The store known as La Chaussee d'Antin had recently announced its new
inventory of yard goods. Over two million meters of barege, over five million of
grenadine and poplin, and over tlnee million of other fabrics-altogether about
eleven million meters of textiles. Le Tintamarre now remarked, after recommend­
ing La Chaussee d'Antin to its female readers as the 'foremost house of fashion in
the world; and also the 'most dependable': 'The entire French railway sy stem
comprises barely ten tllOusand kilometers of tracks-that is, only ten million
meters. This one store, therefore, with its stock of textiles, could virtually stretch a
tent over all the railroad tracks of France, "which, especially in the heat of
summer, would be very pleasant.'" Three or four other establishments of tlns
kind publish sinrilar figures, so that, with all tl,ese materials combined, one could
place not only Paris ... but the whole departement of the Seine under a massive
canopy, 'which likewise would be welcome in rainy weather: But we camlOt help
asking: How are stores supposed to find room to stock tlns gigantic quantity of