of fantasy. As such, he took an endless beating. The motorcars 
of the 1920s look to our eyes like ingenious contraptions 
hastily assembled in a tool shop. Their link with the buggy was 
still strong and clear. Then came the balloon tires, the massive 
interior, and the bulging fenders. Some people see the big car 
as a sort of bloated middle age, following the gawky period of 
the first love-affair between America and the car. But funny as 
the Viennese analysts have been able to get about the car as 
sex object, they have at last, in so doing, drawn attention to 
the fact that, like the bees in the plant world, men have always 
been the sex organs of the technological world. The car is no 
more and no less a sex object than the wheel or the hammer. 
What the motivation researchers have missed entirely is the 
fact that the American sense of spatial form has changed 
much since radio, and drastically since TV. It is misleading, 
though harmless, to try to grasp this change as middle-age