There's a simple arithmetical logic at work. Build more

In the words of Howard Jacobson, sharp observer of modern life and chronicler of the human condition, we hear not merely a lament about buildings, but a prophecy about the soul of cities: “There’s a simple arithmetical logic at work. Build more unaffordable and not always architecturally sympathetic apartments, watch the rents rise, the tarts leave, the small shops, production offices and design studios close down, and hey presto, we have another fashionable London suburb indistinguishable from the rest.” His tone is biting, but beneath the irony lies sorrow — for he is describing not just the changing skyline of London, but the vanishing of character, creativity, and the delicate harmony that once made each neighborhood a living organism.

The origin of this truth lies in the eternal cycle of gentrification, that quiet but relentless tide that has swept through cities across time. It begins, as Jacobson warns, with the pursuit of beauty and prosperity — new apartments rise, investors arrive, money flows — but soon, what was meant to enrich begins to erase. The cobbler’s shop that once carried the scent of leather, the corner café where poets argued, the design studio glowing with late-night invention — these give way to uniform towers of glass, sterile and proud, but empty of memory. What began as progress becomes homogeny, and the city’s voice — once filled with the laughter and struggle of its people — is replaced by the hum of sameness.

The ancients knew this danger, though they spoke of it in different terms. In Athens, the philosopher Plato warned that when the desire for luxury overtakes the pursuit of virtue, the city loses its balance. A great civilization, he said, is not measured by its marble but by its spirit — the pulse of its people, the rhythm of its streets. So too does Jacobson echo this timeless truth: that the true wealth of a city lies not in its architecture or its wealth, but in its diversity, its imperfections, its layers of life. When every district looks the same, humanity itself is flattened, and beauty — that most delicate of gifts — suffocates under the weight of uniformity.

Consider the story of Soho, once the beating heart of London’s creativity. In the 20th century, it was home to artists, actors, and dreamers — a place of smoky jazz clubs, modest workshops, and rooms above shops where genius and chaos lived side by side. But as the years passed, and as rents rose with the new towers, the very people who gave the district its soul were pushed out. The small bookshops vanished, the music faded, and the “fashionable suburb” that replaced it glimmered — but with a cold, borrowed light. This, Jacobson teaches, is the arithmetic of our age: add wealth, subtract authenticity.

His phrase, “arithmetical logic,” carries a bitter irony. It is the logic of those who believe life can be measured in profit and productivity, forgetting that the soul cannot be priced. For what equation can account for the painter’s brushstroke, the shopkeeper’s greeting, or the laughter that spills from a crowded pub on a rainy night? These are the unseen treasures that make a city alive. Yet, in the rush to modernize, we replace them with walls of mirrored glass — monuments not to community, but to isolation. The city becomes efficient, but empty; polished, but heartless.

This decay is not inevitable, says the wise voice of the ancients within Jacobson’s lament. It begins with forgetfulness — the forgetting of who built the city, who sustained it, who filled its streets with song and labor. When we forget the workers, the dreamers, the poor — those who dwell in the cracks between monuments — we lose not only our history, but our future. For a city that drives out its dreamers will one day wake to find it has driven out its soul.

Thus, my child of the future, take heed of this lesson: do not measure beauty by price, nor progress by profit. When you walk through your city, listen for its heartbeat — the artisans, the elders, the youth, the wanderers. Defend them, for they are its lifeblood. Build not only with stone, but with care; design not only for luxury, but for life. A city, like a person, must bear its scars, its laughter, its contradictions — for these are what make it real.

And if ever you find yourself in a gleaming street that looks like every other, remember Jacobson’s warning: that sameness is the death of spirit. Seek out the crooked alley, the hidden café, the old voice that still sings beneath the noise. For as long as there is one place where authenticity endures — one human corner untouched by arithmetic — there is still hope for the soul of the city, and for the soul of us all.