Quotes About Home

Everybody needs a–a centre. Somewhere to go out from and come back to. And I suppose as you get older you enjoy the coming back more than the going out.

Let us live for each other and for happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home, near the inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sublime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave 'life,' that we may live.

But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation.

Si soffermò a riflettere sul proprio comportamento. A casa della vittima si entra in punta di piedi e scalzi, a casa della madre dell'eventuale aggressore si entra a passi pesanti. Ma chi è più vittima dell'altra, di queste due donne?

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

The journey itself is my home.

This house has endured three of my Dad's four wives, and so over the last few decades it's been a home-size mood ring, changing to the styles and temperaments of its female inhabitants.

I have to go back home for a while." "Ohio?" "Omaha." "Right. Omaha. Why?

it doesn't feel like home—more like a strange, wildly expensive sleepaway camp for pseudoadults.

I never fully realized how much a New England birth in itself was worth, but I am happy that that was my lot. I have felt it so keenly these last few days. Dear old New England, with all her sternness and uncompromising opinions; the home of all that is good and noble.

They always ate and made tea on the alcohol lamp before going to bed. This was quite in the German tradition, Tilda said. Germans in their homes ate six meals a day: breakfast, second breakfast, dinner, afternoon coffee, supper and in the evening tea or beer with sandwiches and kuchen. Betsy, in the cherry-red bathrobe, and Tilda in a blue one, feasted merrily.

In the little yellow cottage which had once been the Ray house, lights were shining. It could almost have been home still. Betsy and Tacy could almost have been children again. "I wish I still lived there," said Betsy, hugging Tacy, partly from love and partly from cold. "It's such trouble to grow up.

I don't mind bigots. You're allowed to be bigoted, if that makes you happy. Just do it at home. And not around the children.

Slippers always seemed like kind of a nonsense item until she came to Ellingham and felt the bathroom floor on the first proper day of wintry weather. Once skin touched tile and part of her soul died, she knew what slippers were for.

Stevie had often wondered how these conversations worked, when people talked about feelings and touching and all of the stuff she thought was meant to be kept carefully bottled inside her own personal apothecary. Now someone wanted in, to take the lids off the vials, to peer at the contents. Stevie was unaware that people were even allowed to talk about emotions this frankly. This was not how things happened at home.

I have never, ever been so happy to see a house.

She never drank tea at home. Tea was for England.

Back at home, people would have been weeping and doing a lot of very public group hugs. At Wexford, some people just aggressively pretended nothing was happening.

It's good to be home," Iris said, putting her head on Albert's shoulder. "We've been gone so long." "We are all home," Albert said. "And here we will stay.

I want it to be a palace—only I don't think palaces are very luxurious. They're so big, so promiscuously public. A small house is the true luxury. A residence for two people only—for my wife and me. It won't be necessary to allow for a family, we don't intend to have children. Nor for visitors, we don't intend to entertain.

He belonged in the countryside, she thought—he belonged everywhere—he was a man who belonged on earth—and then she thought of the words which were more exact: he was a man to whom the earth belonged, the man at home on earth and in control.

the expression which, for both of them, meant that they felt at home with each other: an expression of contempt

When I walked down the streets, I asked myself, are these my people?, is this my hometown, am I who I am?

The truth is that James, like many other great writers and artists, had chosen his own loyalties and nationality. His true country, his home, was that of the imagination.