primarily in the expanding peripheral areas, along with the middle and upper classes. The annual cost of such a program in the U.S. has been estimated at $2 billion-a modest sum compared with the amounts allotted to less constructive purposes in the national budget.

The fourth major category of metropolitan land use-open land-consists in North America at present mainly of large tracts held privately for future development. With increasing leisure there is a growing need to turn some of this land to recreational uses. In this connection we should also look at the "metropolian region," which takes in considerably more area than the metropolis itself.

Donald J. Bogue of the University of Michigan, examining 67 metropolitan centers in the U.S., has shown that the sphere of influence of a large metropolis usually extends out to about 60 to 100 miles from the center. Typically the metro politan region includes a number of industrial satellite towns that draw on the resources of the metropolis. The metropolis in turn looks outward to the region for various facilities, particularly recreational resorts such as large parks, lakes, summer cottages, camps, motels and lodges. In Sweden, C. F. Ahlberg, head of the Stockholm Regional Plan, has emphasized this role of the region around the capital city by naming it the "Summer Stockholm"-the widened horizon that opens up for Stockholmers when the snows have gone. Metropolises do, of course, have their winter horizons as well, typified by the ski resorts that fluorish as satellites within driving distance of many an American city.

Increasingly the outer-fringe metropolitan region is becoming a popular place for retirement for people on pensions or other modest incomes who can live inexpensively in the country without being too far from the amenities of the city. This is an intriguing reversal of the ancient pattern in which the countryside was the locus of productive work and the city was the Mecca for the enjoyment of leisure.

While we are on the subject of the metropolitan region, I should like to clarify the distinction between such a region and a "conurbation" or "megalopolis." The predominant form of the metropolis is mononuclear: it derives its identity from a single center. This is the way metropolitan areas are generally organized in the U.S. and it is the only form they take in a new young settlement such as Australia, where the population is concentrated mainly in five large metropoli. tan areas, each centered on a single city. In the older countries of Europe, on the other hand, conurbations-metropolitan regions formed by the gradual growing together of neighboring cities-are fairly common. The outstanding examples are the cities of the Ruhr in Germany and the circle of cities that form what is known as "Randstad Holland" (including Amsterdam, Haarlem, Leiden, The Hague, Rotterdam and Utrecht). The Ruhr conurbation grew up around the coal mines. Along the French-Italian Riviera a conurbation now seems to be developing around seashore play.

There seems to be a general disposition to assume that the Boston-to-Washington axis is destined soon to become a new conurbation on a vastly larger scale than any heretofore. The available evidence does not support such a view. Each of the metropolitan areas along the seaboard remains strongly oriented to its own center. The several metropolitan regions are separated by large areas of sparse development. Conurbation can occur only when the crests of the waves of two expanding centers overlap, and except perhaps between Washington and Baltimore that is not likely to happen anywhere in North America during this century.

To get back to the problems of planning for the metropolis: How should the four main components-central business, production, residence and open landbe organized spatially? The aims here can be expressed most clearly in the form of pairs of seemingly contradictory requirements.

First, it is desirable to minimize the need for commuting to work and at the same time maximize the ability to do so. Obviously most people would like to live close to their place of work, but to seek such an arrangement as a general proposition would, be unrealistic and too restrictive. It is estimated that half of all metropolitan households contain more than one gainfully employed person, and they are not likely to be employed in the same place. Furthermore, the preferred locations for residence and work do not necessarily match up. The situation in Hudson County, N.J., across the river from Manhattan, offers a striking illustration. In 1960 the county contained 244,000 jobs and 233,000 employed residents-apparently a neat balance. On analysis, however, it turns out that 35 percent of the jobs in the county were held by people who commuted from

homes elsewhere, and 32 percent of the workers who lived in the county com muted out to work. Freedom of choice, both of the place to live and of the place to work, will always depend on opportunity to travel from one place to the other. A second ideal of planning is to provide quick access to the center of the city and also quick access to the open country. Most people have tried to achieve a compromise by moving to the suburbs. The resulting pattern of urban sprawl, however, has made this move self-defeating. The more people move out to the suburbs, the farther they have to move from the city and the farther the country moves away from them.

Third, the functions of the metropolis must be integrated, yet there are also strong reasons to separate them-for example, to separate residences from factories or offices. Isolation of the functions by rigid zoning, however, threatens to break up the metropolis into barren and monotonous precincts. Evidently there is no pat answer to this problem. The optimal grain of mixture will vary with conditions.

Fourth, the social health of the metropolis requires that its people identify themselves both with their own neighborhood or group and with the metropolis as a whole. Since identification with an ingroup often leads to hostility toward outgroups, great emphasis is needed on measures that create interest and pride in the metropolis.

Fifth, the metropolis must strike a balance between continuity and receptiveness to change, between the traditions that give it identity and the flexibility necessary for growth and adaptation to new conditions.

Most of the schemes that have been proposed for shaping the future growth of the metropolis are tactily based on these criteria, although the requirements have not generally been spelled out in precisely this form. The plans are designed to decentralize the metropolis in some way, with the dual aim of minimizing traffic congestion at the center and bringing the city closer to the countryside.

One proposal is the satellite plan I have already mentioned. In that arrangement each of the satellite towns outside the center is largely self-sufficient and more or less like the others. Another scheme somewhat similar to this is called the "constellation" plan; it would set up several widely separated units each of which would specialize in one function, such as finance, administration, cultural institutions and so on. Still another plan is the "linear" metropolis, several variants of which haye been proposed. It would not be oriented toward a single center but would contain a series of them strung in a line. The advocates of this plan are attracted primarily by the possibilities it offers for easy access to open land and for unlimited expansion. Decentralization was pushed to its ultimate conclusion in the "Broadacre City" plan suggested by Frank Lloyd Wright. He proposed to disperse the activities of the city more or less evenly over the whole metropolitan region. Such a plan would be practicable only if the time and cost of travel were reduced essentially to zero. They may approach but certainly will never reach that condition.

Probably the most realistic of the many proposals is the plan called the "stellar" or "finger" metropolis. It would retain the center and thrust out fingers in all directions. Each finger would be composed of a string of towns and would be comparable to a linear city. The towns in the string would be connected to one another and to the metropolitan center by a rapid-transit line. Between the fingers would be large wedges of open country, which would thus be easily ac cessible both to the fingers and to the main center. The metropolis would grow by extending the fingers. This outline is the basis of current plans for the future development of Copenhagen and Stockholm and of the "Year 2000" plan for Washington, D.C.

Any plan that seeks to control the growth of the metropolis rather than leaving it to the play of market forces will require the setting up of new forms of control. Because it inevitably entails transfers of value from one piece of land to another, planning of any sort is bound to come into conflict with the existing vested interests of landowners and municipalities. It is obvious, therefore, that the implementation of rational regional planning would call for: (1) the creation of an overall metropolitan government for the metropolis, (2) public ownership of all or most of the land that is to be developed, (3) tax revenues sufficient to enable the metropolitan government to acquire the land and carry out the public works required for its development, (4) a national housing policy that would eliminate segregation by providing people at all income levels with freedom of choice in the location of their dwellings.

In terms of current American political folklore these are radical measures. Each of them, however, has been carried out in varying forms and to a varying degree by more than one European nation within the framework of democratic capitalism.

In the long run the development of the metropolis is likely to be influenced most powerfully by improvements in transportation and communication and by the increase in leisure time. The first may lead to an expansion of the metropolis that will embrace a whole region. The second, depending on future developments in mankind's social structure and culture, may lead to panem et circenses (“bread and circuses") or to otium cum dignitate (“leisure with dignity"). Both are possible in the metropolis.

EXHIBIT 225

THE URBAN CHALLENGE: TOWARD THE PLURAL CITY

By Leonard J. Fein

What is the special magic of the city, what is the magic of my city? I think now of my four favorite cities, and wonder what it is that draws me to each. There is a connecting thread. Chicago is a city in which the fog creeps in on "little cat feet," providing a convenient camouflage for Al Capone. It is a city of danger and of vitality and, with the most amply developed park system I am aware of, of serenity as well.

Boston is the city of the Cabots, the Lodges, and Mrs. Hicks, of Reverend Reeb and Father Feeney, of magnificent civility and decorum and of monumental bigotry and deceit. The Charles is polluted, Beacon Hill is rat-infested, yet the city has a sense of scale achieved by few others. It takes its past seriously, its present cynically, and its future casually, which is probably the only honest combination available.

Washington, the center of government without self-government, the heart of the nation so splendidly isolated from the body it leads and serves, the quietly elegant Georgetown and the unrelievedly squalid northeast neighborhoodsWashington is monument and façade simultaneously.

Finally, my favorite, Jerusalem, at least the Israeli half, to which my experience has been limited. Its name means "City of Peace," yet it is divided with a wall patrolled by armed sentries; the tallest building in Jewish Jerusalem is the Young Men's Christian Association, and its best restaurant is the Mandarin, serving kosher Chinese specialties. The tomb of King David abuts the site of the assumption of the Virgin Mary; the Valley of the Cross nestles next to a radically modern art museum; it is Middle East and Eighteenth Century Europe and America rolled into one.

In short, what all these cities share is their comprehension of diversity, in architecture and ethnicity, in culture and in values, in tone and in temper. I be lieve that we see the city as significant only because of this diversity, only be cause through diversity it offers choice, choice of friends and of tastes and of activities, of high culture and low culture and everything that falls between the two. Except as it offers choice, the city is a passing trinket, adorning mankind's age of concentrated commerce but hardly worth the time and energy we invest in its preservation.

Nor will it do to delude ourselves and others by suggesting that mere change in the physical environment, or mere availability of what a minority defines as better choices, will elicit popular enthusiasm. There is no herd out there, dumbly prepared to follow whither we wise men lead. Out there are people with tastes and values and problems no less authentic than our own, and the city of our dreams may not respond, indeed may violate, their visions.

Yet, I would not want to discourage the utopians. I do not know whether the tomorrows they foretell are those for which I, too, labor, or whether their own hopes are inarticulate and unarticulated longings. However, neither would I be willing to let one man's utopia become society's policy, the private vision become the public plan. Not efficiency nor economy nor even neatness, the apparent ideal of most planners, is an intrinsically meritorious goal.

If the hallmark of the city is diversity, then all men's plans-those elaborately conceived and eloquently defended by the planners themselves, and those grop

ingly sought after, dimly if at all perceived; the malls and the monuments and the mile-high skyscrapers, the neighborhoods and the new towns and the nirvanas all these must fight it out and be fought out, one by one, piece by piece, until, mutilated and misshapen, they emerge from the battle into policy and then reality. It is not a pretty picture, it is often a caricature, but I know no other way, I know of no men or group of men to whose powers of divination I would easily entrust my own tastes and predispositions. I know no city so consensual that all men's tomorrows are as one; nor, were there such a place, would I care to dwell there long; nor, were there such a place, would it be what I call a city. If the city is not diversity, it is no city; if it is diversity, then plans are politics, fair game for us all.

More still: If the city is diversity, then can the planners plan at all? Can diversity be planned? Can the slide rule and the draftsman's board ordain the gentle chaos that diversity implies? All have seen the striking pictures of tomorrow's cities. Here and there, one finds enchantment. But, for the most part, there is an aseptic sameness about them. I cannot imagine wandering through their pristine plazas with any sense of wonderment, with any hope that around the coming corner I will find that startling juxtaposition which helps to make the city what it is.

There is little surprise in store for us tomorrow, only cleverness and gimmickry. With William Whyte, we shall search in vain for "at least one hideous house to relieve the good taste." The prevailing myth holds that if the automobile is banished from the central business district, and all buildings are neat and clean, the quality of our life will change. It is a myth that appeals to our anality, our sense of order, it is the Colgate-Palmolive city as interpreted by Price-Waterhouse, and all the guts are gone. I have in mind a verse by Carl Sandburg. When will the efficiency engineers and the poets get together on a program?

Will that be a cold day? will that be a special hour?
Will somebody be cuckoo then?

And if so, who?

And yet, withal, I am no Luddite of the city, singing a nostalgic song, celebrating the dirt and noise and shabbiness of Trenton, of Milwaukee, or a hundred other Trentons and Milwaukees. Sandburg's verse begins with these lines:

Who can make a poem of the depths of weariness
bringing meaning to those never in the depths?
Those who order what they please

when they choose to have it

can they understand the many down under

who come home to their wives and children at night
and night after night as yet too brave and unbroken

to say, "I ache all over"?

How can a poem deal with production cost

and leave out definite misery paying

a permanent price in shattered health and early old age?

I see no redeeming virtue in dirt. My redemption is in disorder, in the subtle chaos which both reflects and encourages that interpersonal disorder which in turn slaves off boredom. Against the sterile soporific city I place my vision of a city not wholly comprehensible.

And if not wholly comprehensible, then not wholly plannable. Not wholly plannable, for there are matters of such pressing import that we cannot turn our backs upon the city and wait for some mysterious invisible hand to determine its destiny. There is invisible hand. If it is not our hand which draws the plans, then it will be others, more avaricious and less sensitive, whose hands will do the work. Our problem is that we must plan, even though we lack the wisdom to build the eternal city. We must plan, knowing that in 50 years what we have seen as wise and right will surely be found sorely wanting. Yet I think it important to keep a sense of perspective here. For want of it, we are inclined to exaggerate the problem, and to turn in error to those whose plans and capital are vast, to those who pretend to have solved all our problems with one neat formula.

No one neat formula will do, first because we do not know the right formula; second, because most of the present available formulas seek to de-urbanize the

city; and, finally, because the very notion that any one formula will do also violates the diversity we seek to preserve. What we ought to be after is the piecemeal plan based not on statisticl averages but on statistical distributions. I see no romance in a city built for the benefit of those who fall within one standard deviation from the mean. Unless I am vastly mistaken, our people are not neatly distributed along a normal curve; the curve, at best, is polymodal, and I would wish our cities to reflect the several modes. Indeed, our people are not neatly distributed along one measurable dimension; there are many dimensions, and hence many curves, and I would wish our cities to reflect them all.

I speak, then, of the plural city: plural in its social structure, in its policies, in its planning processes. In each case, there are powerful and popular myths that speak of other and competing visions. It is, in short, not only the landscape of our cities which impedes community; it is our very ideology.

Plural in social structure. The conventional wisdom has it that the city is the melting pot, the giant cauldron from which unhyphenated Americans are mechanically spewed forth. There is substantial dispute among sociologists as to whether this view of the city as a melting pot is sound description. Some find important meanings in the ties of kinship and ethnicity and religon and class; others see these as passingly significant, destined shortly to be cast aside. My own judgment is that they matter still, and are not doomed as meaningful bases of association so long as our plans themselves do not condemn them.

Intellectuals debate not the descriptive merit of the melting pot, but its normative propriety. Should we, in our public pronouncements and in our policy planning, encourage the associational ties on which community is based? Can gesellschaft encompass gemeinschaft? Is it possible, in short, to build a city with all the virtues of anonymity and interaction, at the same time that we build communities with private understandings of the world and localized roots? And, if it is possible to maximize both localism and cosmopolitanism, is it desirable?

I am convinced that it is not only desirable, but necessary, if the city is to avoid becoming the caricatured monstrosity so many see in it already. I think it desirable because I have in mind a simple model in which group structure is defined by two variables: cohesion and interaction. Where the internal cohesion of groups is high, and the interaction of groups with each other is low, we have an essentially feudal society. That, presumably, is what the small town is all about. Where group cohesion is low, and interaction is high, I take it that we are confronted with the mass society-unstructured interaction, rootlessness, ultimately anomie. On the other hand, the concept of pluralism calls for well-defined groups with substantial overlap and significant interaction. It raises certain dangers, including the prospect of ghettoization, at least for significant numbers of people. I confess I am less concerned by such dangers than by the prospect of a formless city. Diversity is no synonym for the formless void, for randomness. My own recipe is not for melting pot, but, if you will, for beef stew, a loose and pungent gravy connecting identifiable chunks of this and that. I like the analogy because little bits and pieces are constantly breaking off from the larger coagulations and getting lost somewhere in the general mess. So be it. For those who prefer the more absolute anonymity, and for those who prefer the sense of village in the city, both are possible. For the rest, there is the happy interaction of people secure in their own belongingness. It is not orderly, by any means, but neither is our picture of ourselves and what we want.

Perhaps an illustration will help to clarify the imagery. Over the coming decades the future of the American city is dramatically and inevitably bound up with the future of the American Negro. I do not think there is an identity between what we call the urban problem and what we call the Negro problem, but there is a good deal of overlap between the two. It seems to me that one of the central problems of the Negro leadership is that they are caught in a complex contradiction.

For many, many years, Negro and White liberals alike have been arguing with their benighted compatriots that Negro-ness was an irrelevant, a trivial variable, that the color of a man's skin in no way determined what sort of man he was. Time after time, thoughtful scientists have felt it necessary to issue lengthy findings assuring the public that pigmentation was no matter. The logical conclusion out of all this reasoning has been that the ideal society is the color-blind society in which, presumably, Negroes would be randomly distributed throughout the population.