Quotes About Home

As much as people like to get visited at home by strangers who tell them they're most likely going to Hell, we prefer less intrusive means of missionary work. Our ways are subtle.

I've been a very lucky guy. I played on championship teams. I played for Canada. I've won some awards and I'm very proud of those accomplishments. But I don't think there's anything greater than to come home and to be recognized at home. This is the pinnacle.

No more coming home as to a death sentence. No more leaving after this leaving.

So I walk home like a burning house, like a burning stable, the light of life pouring out of the fire, fire pouring out of the dying wood, hostile sorrow lingering under the ashes

and as I was saying, one won't have it easy with him, when Uncle Pepin worked the malt house, that son of mine took up with him, to not be at home, when dark came and we couldn't find him, he would be in the stables, at the troughs with oxen breathing down on him, happier hobnobbing with oxen than in his own home, as I say, one will not have it in any way easy with him.

Dovevate starvene seduti a casa, sul culo...

But one never has it easy with that son of mine, one has one devil of a time." Mom was conversing and setting spoons and forks on either side of the Sevres plates "because since he was a youngster he was always, still is, elsewhere, home was hell to him, he just came in to sleep, morning to night he'd be out on Polni Street, the entire town knew him, because he was forever at somebody else's, always wanting to be somewhere other than where he was.

Mi patria es mi hijo y mi biblioteca.

A kitchen without an ironing board? Are you kidding? It's un-American. It's like Simon without Garfunkel.

I wouldn't run for President. I wouldn't want to move to a smaller house.

I don't believe in riches, but you should see where I live.

when Alice came home from wherever other girls or women had been gathered, she always hurried to her mother with earnest descriptions of the clothing she had seen. At such times, if Adams was present, he might recognize "organdie," or "taffeta," or "chiffon," as words defining certain textiles, but the rest was too technical for him, and he was like a dismal boy at a sermon, just waiting for it to get itself finished.

My theory of literature is an author who does not indulge in trashiness—writes about people you could introduce into your own home. I agree with my Uncle Sydney, as I once heard him say he did not care to read a book or go to a play about people he would not care to meet at his own dinner table. I believe we should live by certain standards and ideals, as you know from my telling you my theory of life.

To be without sympathy is to be alone in the world--without friends or country, home or kindred.

I jetset around and play these songs and get to hang with some pretty amazing people, then I go home to a really great farm, though actually it's a disaster area of a farm at the moment. But it's certainly a blast. I wouldn't trade lives with anyone right now.

But there was an addictive element to fear. At home, you live relatively calm, placid, mundane lives. You go over there and live in mortal fear, and then you're supposed to come back home and be calm, placid, and mundane again. Human beings don't work that way.

It was late when he got home, but as usual, every light in the house was still switched on. A lot of school time nowadays was spent on conservation and renewable energy, but his two boys hadn't learned yet how to depart a room without leaving on the lights. He

Matt and Olivia lived in a declining two-family held together by aluminum siding.

According to all of them, Heidi, fewer than twenty-four hours from being murdered in her home, had been her usual ebullient self.

married Ginny," he said to Terese. "You remember her?" "Of course. I'm glad to hear you're happy, Mario." He took a beat, reassessing, calming down. "We have three kids. We keep saying we're going to buy a bigger place, but we like it here. And real estate is ridiculous in London." We stood there.

The frame was one of those faux bronze numbers you get at Rite-Aid or a similar drugstore-cum-frame store.

Home was a secure haven for that—a familial cone of honesty, if you will.

All canonical writing possesses the quality of making you feel strangeness at home.

Not only was he sorrowful at the prospect of leaving home, he was convinced, he whispered, that he would never return alive. Herndon implored him to abandon such thoughts.