她们开心地为别人活着，没人留意她们所做出的牺牲。最后，炉上的小蟋蟀停止了甜美的歌唱，灿烂的阳光消逝，只留下了寂静和阴影。

I write to make sense of the world, to give it a shape, a form.

世界并非蒙特卡洛模拟。

A building should be a filter of light, not just a container of space.

"I write about tyrants not because I fear them, but because I refuse to let them own my imagination."

The more one loves, the more one suffers, but also the more one lives.