In fact，if we sum up what we have just roughly pointed out—disregarding a thousand details of proof and also exceptions to the rule—it comes briefly to this：that down to the fifteenth century，architecture was the chief recorder of the human race；that during that space no single thought that went beyond the absolutely fundamental，but was embodied in some edifice；that every popular idea，like every religious law，has had its monuments；finally，that the human race has never conceived an important thought that it has not written down in stone.And why？Because every thought，whether religious or philosophic，is anxious to be perpetuated；because the idea which has stirred one generation longs to stir others，and to leave some lasting trace.But how precarious is the immortality of the manu！How far more solid，enduring，and resisting a book is the edifice！To destroy the written word there is need only of a torch and a Turk.To destroy the constructed word there is need of a social revolution，a terrestrial upheaval.The barbarians swept over the Coliseum；the deluge，perhaps，over the Pyramids.
In the fifteenth century all is changed.
Human thought discovers a means of perpetuating itself，not only more durable and more resisting than architecture，but also simpler and more easy of achievement.Architecture is dethroned，the stone letters of Orpheus must give way to Gutenberg's letters of lead.
The Book will destroy the Edifice.
The invention of printing is the greatest event of history.It is the parent revolution；it is a fundamental change in mankind's mode of expression；it is human thought putting off one shape to don another；it is the complete and definite sloughing of the skin of that serpent who，since the days of Adam，has symbolized intelligence.
Under the form of printing，thought is more imperishable than ever；it is volatile，intangible，indestructible；it mingles with the very air.In the reign of architecture it became a mountain，and took forceful possession of an era，of a country.Now it is transformed into a flock of birds，scattering to the four winds and filling the whole air and space.
We repeat：who does not admit that in this form thought is infinitely more indelible？The stone has become inspired with life.Durability has been exchanged for immortality.One can demolish substance，but how extirpate ubiquity？Let a deluge come—the birds will still be flying above the waters long after the mountain has sunk from view；and let but a single ark float upon the face of the cataclysm，and they will seek safety upon it and there await the subsiding of the waters；and the new world rising out of this chaos will behold when it wakes，hovering over it，winged and unharmed，the thought of the world that has gone down.
And when one notes that this mode of expression is not only the most preservative，but also the simplest，the most convenient，the most practicable for all；when one considers that it is not hampered by a great weight of tools and clumsy appurtenances；when one compares the thought，forced，in order to translate itself into an edifice，to call to its assistance four or five other arts and tons of gold，to collect a mountain of stones，a forest of wood，a nation of workmen—when one compares this with the thought that only asks for a little paper，a little ink，and a pen in order to become a book，is it any wonder that human intelligence deserted architecture for printing？
Then observe too，how，after the discovery of printing，architecture gradually becomes dry，withered，naked；how the water visibly sinks，the sap ceases to rise，the thought of the times and of the peoples desert it.This creeping paralysis is hardly perceptible in the fifteenth century，the press is too feeble as yet，and what it does abstract from all-powerful architecture is but the superfluity of its strength.But by the sixteenth century the malady is pronounced.Already architecture is no longer the essential expression of social life；it assumes miserable classic air；from Gallican，European，indigenous，it becomes bastard Greek and Roman，from the genuine and the modern it becomes pseudo-antique.This decadence we call the Renaissance—a magnificent decadence nevertheless，for the ancient Gothic genius，that sun now sinking behind the gigantic printing-press of Mayence，sheds for a little while its last rays over this hybrid mass of Romanesque arches and Corinthian colonnades.
And it is this sunset that we take for the dawn of a new day.
However，from the moment that architecture is nothing more than an art like any other—is no longer the sum total of art，the sovereign，the tyrant—it is powerless to monopolize the services of the others，who accordingly emancipate themselves，throw off the yoke of the architect and go their separate ways.Each art gains by this divorce.Thus isolated，each waxes great.Stone-masonry becomes sculpture；pious illumination，painting；the restricted chant blooms out into concerted music.It is like an empire falling asunder on the death of its Alexander，and each province becoming an independent kingdom.
For here begins the period of Raphael，Michael Angelo，Jean Goujon，Palestrina—those luminaries of the dazzling firmament of the sixteenth century.
And with the arts，thought，too，breaks its bonds on all sides.The free-thinkers of the Middle Ages had already inflicted deep wounds on Catholicism.The sixteenth century rends religious unity in pieces.Before printing，the Reformation would merely have been a schism：printing made it a revolution.Take away the press，and heresy is paralyzed.Look on it as fatal or providential，Gutenberg is the fore-runner of Luther.
