The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.

There may be a great fire in our hearts yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.

What has happened to architecture since the second world war that the only passers-by who can contemplate it without pain are those equipped with a white stick and a dog?