What caused the housing crisis?  The answer is simple.  Us.  And our avarice.  Not just the avarice of mortgage brokers and depraved hedge-fund managers.  But the avarice of the American homeowner, who worships his home like the Temple of Baal.  We worship our fabulous and modern and spacious and ultra-convenient new homes.  We worship, especially in cities like the beautiful and historic city of Savannah (where I live), historic homes and preserved homes and the history and faux family legacies they connote. 

House worship, encouraged by lifestyle publications like Southern Living, has long been a cult and a vice among more fortunate Southerners, not least in my hometown of Hillsborough, North Carolina, where tours of historic homes attract herds of orderly, often elderly tourists with guidebooks and maps.

Whether our homes are historic and magnificent or modern and magnificent, we want them to identify us and define us.

Way beyond comfort or any aesthetic considerations, the great houses tower and sprawl because, as Thomas Sutpen grasped, “How else would they know how much money I have, how far I’ve come?” [...] I’m old enough to remember when the boss’s house on the hill, valued in an awed whisper at a hundred thousand dollars, occupied the pinnacle of envy. Now a hundred grand won’t buy a goat barn in most markets, and I’ve seen a private home listed at fifty-five million dollars, which I’m sure is no record. McMansions have become McVersailles and McBlenheims, McTaj Mahals. On the lovely beach west of Panama City, Florida, part of what was once known as the Redneck Riviera and recently as the Emerald Coast, a fifteen-mile hell of reckless development and architectural psychosis is crowned by a stadium-size beach house (built, I was told, by an heir to one of America’s famous fortunes) that looks like an alien spaceship crash-landed on the dunes. If its architect didn’t subsequently take his own life, he must have been one of the aliens.   

You may not live in a giant, climate-controlled alien spaceship that crashlanded on the dunes of the Gulf Coast, but do you really need everything you have?