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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

Every time I imagine a garden in an architectural setting, it turns into a magical place. I think of gardens I have seen, that I believe I have seen, that I long to see, surrounded by simple walls, columns, arcades or the facades of buildings - sheltered places of great intimacy where I want to stay for a long time.

I have a lovely office at the back of my house; it's an old stable and you can see right out to the countryside on one side and into the house on the other side.

On weekends, I sit in a lounge chair on my balcony. I love to be outside when the weather's right. I can stay there pretty much all day.

When building in a place that already has a dominant style, it's important to behave yourself. Look around; refer to what you see. In the mountains above Salzburg, I saw charming chalets and wildflower meadows. The chalets are cozy - I don't do cozy. The meadows are in a soft disarray - I don't do soft, and I don't do disarray. I do order.

There are always two or three or four sides to every story.

Everything has two sides - the outside that is ridiculous, and the inside that is solemn.

I build an entire fort out of pillows. I need at least four pillows. I need on each side, I need one normal usage pillow for the back of my head, and I need another pillow just in case.

All I really want is a three-room house. The home I have designed at my new farm in Bedford, New York, is a three-room house: bedroom on top, living room in the middle, and kitchen on the ground.

I hate to sound esoteric, but there is something about a house that leads you to that one chair, that one corner, where you just sit and feel comfortable.