Quotes About Home

He would be a consul no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, of the language of which he was ignorant; though if ignorance of language were a qualification he might have been a consul at home.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness. CHAPTER

Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from school.

Kill the women? No – nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by-and-by they fall in love with you and never want to go home any more.

Australasian's custom of speaking of England as home. It was always pretty to hear it, and often it was said in an unconsciously caressing way that made it touching; in a way which transmuted a sentiment into an embodiment, and made one seem to see Australasia as a young girl stroking mother England's old gray head.

The tomb of Adam! How touching it was, here in a land of strangers, far away from home, and friends, and all who cared for me, thus to discover the grave of a blood relation.

If you are of any account, stay at home and make your way by faithful diligence; but if you are "no account," go away from home, and then you will have to work, whether you want to or not. Thus you become a blessing to your friends by ceasing to be a nuisance to them

This is a strange place, and extraordinary place, and interesting. There is nothing resembling it at home. The people are all insane, the other animals are all insane, the earth is insane, Nature itself is insane.

I took up my knife and fork and--- well, I simply held them, and kept still; for the boy had inclined his head and was saying a silent grace. A thousand hallowed memories of home and my childhood poured in upon me, and I sigh to think how far I had drifted from religion and its balm for hurt minds, its comfort and solace and support.

A home without a cat —and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat —may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?

I live at the end of some interminable corridor which the lucky damned can call hell but which the much unluckier atheists - and your mother heads up that bunch- must simply get used to calling home.

Do you believe in God? I don't think I ever asked you that one. Well I do now. But my God isn't your Catholic varietal or your Judaic or Mormon or Baptist or Seventh Day Adventist or whatever/whoever. No burning bush, no angels, no cross. God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God.

God's a house. Which is not to say that our house is God's house or even a house of God. What I mean to say is that our house is God.

Confining us to the comforts of a well-lit home gives our varied imaginations a chance to fill the adjacent darkness with questions and demons.

Rudy handed it back. Speaking of which, I think we're both slightly in for it when we get home. You especially. Why me? You know- your mama. What about her? Liesel was exercising the blatant right of every person who's ever belonged to a family. It's all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won't let anyone else do it. That's when you get your back up and show loyalty.

A murderer should probably do many things, but he should never, under any circumstances, come home.

Por encima de todo, la ladrona de libros ansiaba volver al sótano a escribir o leer su historia una vez más. Ahora que lo pienso, sin duda se le veía en la cara. Se moría de ganas de reencontrar esa seguridad, ese hogar, pero era incapaz de moverse. Además, el sótano ya no existía. Era parte del paisaje desvastado.

She was home, among the mayor's books of every color and description, with their silver and gold lettering. She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

walk into the living room (which doubled as the Hubermanns' bedroom), pull the accordion

moments, Liesel stood. The corridor was huge. She examined the soldier in her palm. Instinct told her to run home immediately, but common sense did not allow it. Instead, she placed the ragged soldier in her pocket and returned to the classroom.

Say a prayer at the stones of home

Papa- the accordionist- and Himmel Street. One could not exist without the other, because for Liesel, both were home.

Sin embargo —seguramente por la atracción que ejercían los libros sobre ella— acabó entrando en la casa.

Simplemente volvieron juntos a casa, con los pies doloridos y el corazón cansado.