The Column (n.) by its nature stands freely; woe to those miserable characters who have hammered its slender build onto fat walls.
A Column (n.) must carry its own beginning and end, whereas a stanchion begins and ends by accident — planted in the ground, stopped by the load.
A Column (n.) halved is simply repugnant: two opposed purposes, carrying and enclosing, standing side by side without inner necessity and confused with each other.
A Column (n.) with an Ionic capital: its shell-like scrolls mark the point where the column could have risen higher but curves back into itself.
The Column (n.) is round because it is meant to stand freely, closed in on itself — the circle declaring it was never meant to be part of a wall.
The Column (n.) has nothing to do but support; wreathed in flowers or twisted into spirals because plain shafts felt too cold, it offends genuine taste.
The Column (n.) must look as if it were there for a purpose — neither crushed by its load nor rising so easily into the air that it seems to be playing with it.
The Column (n.) at its most beautiful is a form borrowed from nature, straightened into a stanchion — the unity of real need and purposeless independence.
A Column (n.) is closed by its capital, which says 'Here the column ends', as the pedestal says 'Here it begins' — without them it would be a cadence without a close, a book without a capital letter or full stop.