The Islands of Dr. Thomas Read Online Free PDF Page B

attractive.
    â€œCome here,” he said, as if he had noticed her doubts. “Look at the way the unpainted wood is warped. And there, where the snow is sticking to it...Doesn’t that remind you of something? No? Don’t they look like the waves the wind carves into the sand on the dunes? And look at all the shades of grey, of white. See how different they are? This is so beautiful.”
    So he, too, had been struck by the magic of the untouched snow, but instead of seeing eternity in it, the way she did, he had thought of the sand on the dune. Well , she thought, I guess he is more down to earth than I am!
    In an effort to please him, she tried to see the town through his eyes. As they went from house to house, she studied the shingles greyed by the seasons and the houses leaning into the winds like the stubby evergreens on the cliffs of Langlade, the marks of a past she had, up until that point, paid no attention to.
    He was fascinated by the low, boxy houses built in the last century, bourgeois residences or simple fishers’ homes which had always seemed to her so old-fashioned compared to the North American style houses all the rage among young couples these days.
    Exasperated, he declared, “All of this is going to disappear now that people are buying prefab houses. How horrible! You may as well order meccano from the Eaton’s catalogue. You see, these houses here were built to last. If you look carefully, in the simplest fisherman’s shanty you will see some detail, a little frieze, a decoration that has the sole purpose of making the house more beautiful, of showing how proud they were to build it.”
    â€œThe way you are, when you’re working.”
    â€œYes, the way I am.”
    It was just like her to get right to the point. He was passionate about his work. From the time he was a child, admiring his own house, he had never tired of the textures of the materials, the angles, the balance that you had to bring to the whole project. Actually, it was a miracle that happened every time a building was completed, however big or small. He especially loved looking at the blueprints when it was all done, seeing it through new eyes and discovering a new bit of himself in it, an extension of his personality, a je-ne-sais-quoi that made the building his and his alone.
    â€œThe carpenter who took the time to make these little patterns in the doorway—and I’m sure he had lots of other things to do—but he did that so that, year after year, whenever people look at the house, they would know it was him who built it. I use details like that in my designs too,” François explained to her. “Depending on the location, I’ll use different kinds of wood. You know, some of them change when they are weathered, so that after a few years the whole building looks different. I’m known for using wood with concrete and glass. In some places, wood isn’t used to insulate walls the way it is here. But wherever I use it, it adds something unique and local to my buildings.”
    Ã‰milie drank in his words. If he had been in his architect’s office in Paris, his colleagues would have listened distractedly as he spoke. Here, where people bought prefabricated houses and formica was replacing hardwood furniture, he would have been met with polite smiles and patient explanations about how quickly a prefabricated house could be put up, the “clean and practical” quality of these new materials that could be washed with soap and water and did not have to be dusted day after day.
    â€œOf course,” he added, “I take pictures of all these houses to give me ideas, but also because they are a dying art. I want to honour all those workers who showed me the way. What is left here, today, is nothing compared to what we had in the past...”
    She listened, hanging on his arm and his words, nodding from time to time but not saying a word. She was busy