No matter what an architect may be at home, he becomes a monumentalist when he comes to Washington.

The building is a national tragedy - a cross between a concrete candy box and a marble sarcophagus in which the art of architecture lies buried.

Every age cuts and pastes history to suit its own purposes; art always has an ax to grind.

Good architecture is still the difficult, conscientious, creative, expressive planning for that elusive synthesis that is a near-contradiction in terms: efficiency and beauty.

What counts more than style is whether architecture improves our experience of the built world; whether it makes us wonder why we never noticed places in quite this way before.

New York, thy name is irreverence and hyperbole. And grandeur.

Every creative act draws on the past whether it pretends to or not. It draws on what it knows. There's no such thing, really, as a creative act in a vacuum.

Every generation tailors history to its taste.

Symbol and metaphor are as much a part of the architectural vocabulary as stone and steel.

Real estate is the closest thing to the proverbial pot of gold.

Nothing was more up-to-date when it was built, or is more obsolete today, than the railroad station.

When we become silent, we become whole. And when we become whole, we become holy.

We must stop concentrating on our differences and look for what we have in common.

The Gospel is not a picture of adoption, adoption is a picture of the Gospel.

Coasting to the bottom is the only disgrace.

Using your own time to make someone else’s life better is, like, the nicest thing you can do for anybody.

Two opposing gospels are fighting one another for the soul of our nation and, increasingly, the world: the gospel of consumption and the gospel of peace.

After a lifetime of engaging in long, passionate discussions I have come to the conclusion that it is a waste of time trying to convince anyone of anything.

I'd have stopped writing years ago if it were for the money.

He only is rich who owns the day.

You won," Four mutters. "Stop." I wipe the sweat from my forehead. He stares at me. His eyes are too wide; they look alarmed.