Quotes About Home

I pointed behind me. "They're my guys. It's not that you aren't cute, but when this is already waiting at home it makes a girl a little less eager to add new men.

I'd call it a gift, at least until I had to take Nicky home with me, and then I was going to have some explaining to do. He followed me home, can I keep him? had never worked for puppies when I was a child, and it seemed totally inadequate for a whole human being. The

It was like being home, the way home is supposed to be but never really is. Peaceful, content, exactly what you need, and everything you ever wanted. It was a moment of perfect peace. Perfect happiness, as if this feeling could go on forever.

Peace out, L.A.! Goodbye, wheatgrass and early-morning mountain hikes and hideous highway traffic and surfing culture and most of all people who either didn't understand or didn't like sarcasm. Hello, dirt and bagels and taxis and self-deprecation and edge. It was good to be home.

It was freezing and dark out, and Miriam's house was homey and warm, and the idea of not being alone another night sounded rather nice.

Some things worked far better in imagination than reality. In imagination, she was intrepid and resourceful; in reality she wished she were home, wrapped in a quilt.

To feel safe and warm on a cold wet night, all you really need is soup.

Holly sat down, as if at home. But, Guido wondered, would she be happy where there were no trays?

We domestic sensualists live in a state of longing, no matter how comfortable our own places are.

Where did you live before you came here? I asked. The moon, he said smoothly. We left because the place had no atmosphere.

No, I am never setting foot in this house again it scares me and makes me sad and I wish you could be a mom whose eyes worked but I don't think you can.

Odysseus had twenty years to shed his battle skin. My grandfather left the battlefield in France and rode home in a ship that crawled across the ocean slowly so he could catch his breath. I get on a plane in hell and get off, hours later, at home.

Keep home in your heart, where no one can steal it.

Odysseus had twenty years to shed his battle skin. My grandfather left the battle field in France and rode home in a ship that crawled across the ocean slowly so he could catch his breath. I get on a plane in hell and get off, hours later, at home. I try to ignore death, but she's got her arm around my waist waiting to poison everything I touch.

My goal is to go home and take a nap.

I get caught up in the excitement and clap like a little girl. This is my mistake, thinking I belong. I should have bolted for home immediately. But I don't. I hang around. I want to be a part of it all.

I thought of all the ancestors waiting at the water's edge for their stolen children to come home. Waiting and waiting and waiting . . .

My father stood and said, I will not live without my mind, then shook the doctor's hand and told me it was time to go home.

I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I'd like to keep some of my tree pictures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, so long as it doesn't have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year.

I'd love to stay and chat, but my feet won't let me. I walk home instead of taking the bus. I unlock the front door and walk straight up to my room, across the rug, and into my closet without even taking off my backpack. When I close the closet door behind me, I bury my face into the clothes on the left side of the rack, clothes that haven't fit for years. I stuff my mouth with old fabric and scream until there are no sounds left under my skin.

Where did you live before you came here?" I asked. "The moon," he said smoothly. "We left because the place had no atmosphere.

Not everyone requires, nor seeks, the stimulus of the recurring image. They are content to be without directions. But for those of us who are branded by this particular mark, at least we know where we're going. We are going, as it were, on a series of seasonal journeys, the climax of which is simply returning home.

Frankly, if I walk into your house and you don't have two hundred books somewhere that you haven't read yet, I don't trust you.

The house was still, weighty with the comfort of a thousand books.