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McCoy-22

level, mid level with silversmith workshop, and living level were three distinct flowerings. There was a staggered movement; even the mauve-colored reinforced concrete block post between the two garages had blocks protruding here and there--removed after it had been weakened by many fender blows. What holds the house up now? I don't know. It is rooted in a great rectangular stack that could have done the work but it never touches the ground--it seems to be there just to support a Rapunzel window. Schindler was a magical trompe l'oel engineer in the matter of relaying forces from post to beam to post. He did it so quickly, in his head, or in computations at the side of the drawing (I can hear his [[strikethrough]]Z[[/strikethrough]] wanzig...dreizig) that he rarely needed steel.

It was great fun during those weeks, but the fun somehow masked a lowpoint for Schindler, his acceptance as he entered his sixties that his gifts would never be fully used. He was too patrician to fix blame or to protest. Instead, he laughed harder. He depended on the love and admiration of his clients and staff to keep his spirits high.

There were other changes. The impermanent materials he used and the shortcuts, so symbolic of his mood, were more in evidence. He became more aloof. He was increasingly inclined to sum up his staff, his clients, his family, and his friends with the same clarity and economy of words with which he evoked scenes. Often his summations were, in their spartan accuracy, like a chill wind. Sometimes they were funny, as when he said