Architecture is no longer the construction of city but, like a new branch of physics, the outcome of the dynamics of force fields of perpetual motion, that precious professional alibi of the architect - the mystical ‘spark’ of inspiration - is obviously outdated.
I shall never sleep calmly again when I think of the horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in time and in space, and of those unhallowed blasphemies from elder stars which dream beneath the sea, known and favoured by a nightmare cult ready and eager to loose them upon the world whenever another earthquake shall heave their monstrous stone city again to the sun and air.
It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of mid-afternoon, in the clangour of the metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming house with a prosaic landlady and two stalwart men at my side.
Often when we talk about cities we talk about architecture, architecture, building, building. But the city is really a sense of one community.