Apricot trees exist, ferns exist, and blackberries, too. But beauty? Is beauty a concrete property of a thing or an object that can be described or named, or is it a state of mind, a human sensation? Is beauty a special feeling inspired by our perception of a special form, shape, or design? What is the nature of a thing that sparks a sensation of beauty, that gives us a feeling at a certain moment of experiencing beauty, of seeing beauty? Does beauty have a form?

The intensity of a brief experience, the feeling of being utterly suspended in time, beyond past and future—this belongs to many, perhaps even to all sensations of beauty. Something that has the radiation of beauty strikes a chord in me, and later, when it is over, I say: I was completely at one with myself and the world, at first holding my breath for a brief moment, then utterly absorbed and immersed, filled with wonder, feeling the vibrations, effortlessly excited and calm as well, enthralled by the magic of the appearance that has struck me. Feelings of joy. Happiness. The countenance of a sleeping child, unaware of being watched. Serene, undisturbed beauty. Nothing is mediated. Everything is itself. The flow of time has been halted, experience crystallized into an image whose beauty seems to indicate depth. While the feeling lasts, I have an inkling of the essence of things, of their most universal properties. I now suspect that these lie beyond any categories of thought.

Urban sprawl makes landscape disappear, and the more landscape that is taken away from me the more I suffer from the loss of beauty. I could only be reconciled if this process were ultimately to spawn the vital energy of a new city.

The older I get, the more intense is my interest in the various ways and forms in which light appears in nature. I am amazed, I learn from that, and I am aware that it is the light of the sun that illuminates the buildings I envision. I hold spaces, materials, textures, colors, surfaces, and shapes up to the light of the sun; I capture this light, reflect it, filter it, screen it off; I thin it out to create a luster in the right spot. Light as an agent, I'm familiar with it. But when I really start thinking about it, I understand hardly anything.

Every new work of architecture intervenes in a specific historical situation. It is essential to the quality of the intervention that the new building should embrace qualities that can enter into a meaningful dialogue with the existing situation. For if the intervention is to find its place, it must make us see what already exists in a new light.

The drawing itself must take on the quality of the sought-for object.

When I design a building, I frequently find myself sinking into old, half-forgotten memories, and then I try to recollect what the remembered architectural situation was really like, what it had meant to me at the time, and I try to think how it could help me now to revive that vibrant atmosphere perfected by the simple presence of things, in which everything had its own specific place and form. And although I cannot trace any special forms, there is a hint of fullness and of richness that makes me think: this I have seen before, Yet, at the same time, I know that it is all new and different, and that there is no direct reference to a former work of architecture which might divulge the secret of the memory-laden mood.

Architecture has its own realm. It has a special physical relationship with life. I do not think of it primarily as either a message or a symbol, but as an envelope and background for life which goes on in and around it, a sensitive container for the rhythm of footsteps on the floor, for the concentration of work, for the silence of sleep.