William Blake said that the ruins of time build mansions in Eternity. Sounds good, but what does it actually mean? The aphorism seems as if it must contain the secret of our fascination with ruins, a fascination which fascinates me, as it were. What draws us to ruins, to those failed attempts to hold out against the destructive power of time? Why are ruins a source of melancholy pleasure rather than a painful reminder to be avoided?