Quotes About Home

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home--they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space.

I've always tried to make a home for myself, but I have not felt at home in myself. I've worked hard at being the hero of my own life. But every time I checked the register of displaced persons, I was still on it. I didn't know how to belong. Longing? Yes. Belonging? No.

Don't lie. You know you like to view but not to buy. I have found that I am not a space where people want to live, at least not without decorating first. And that is the stubbornness in me: I do not want to be someone's little home.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm.

Loneliness isn't about being by yourself. That's fine, right and good, desirable in many ways. Loneliness is about finding a landing-place, or not, and knowing that, whatever you do, you can go back there. The opposite of loneliness isn't company, it's return. A place to return.

The curious are always in some danger. If you are curious you might never come home, like all the men who now live with mermaids at the bottom of the sea.

Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.

I'm always nervous about going home, just as I am nervous about rereading books that have meant a lot to me.

Naming is a difficult and timeconsuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.

The journey is about coming home....There is always the return. And the wound will take you there. It is a blood-trail. (p. 220,222)

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I'm warm.

I walked round the block thinking I'd think about it, but my legs were heading home, and sometimes you have to accept that your heart knows what to do.

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm.

I love coming home – and my idea of happiness is to come home to someone I love. We were not able to resolve that difference and what I didn't know was how something as straightforward as a difference could lead to something as complex as a breakdown. The sudden unexpected abandonment, constellated as it was around the idea/impossibility of home, lit a fuse that spat and burned its way towards a walled up opening, smothered in time like an anchorite, was my mother.

I can't stay here. These wars will never end. Even if we get home, there'll be another war. I thought he'd end wars for ever, that's what he said. One more, he said, one more and then there'll be peace and it's always been one more. I want to stop now.

I keep seeing my life darting off in the different directions it could have taken, as chance and circumstance, temperament and desire, open and close, open and close gates, routes, roadways. And yet there feels like an inevitability to who I am--just as of all the planets in all the universes, planet blue, this planet Earth, is the one that is home.

I libri sono per me una casa. I libri non fanno una casa, sono una casa, nel senso che, così come apri una porta, apri un libro e ci entri.

Families, real ones, are chairs and tables and the right number of cups, but I had no means of joining one, and no means of dismissing my own.

I libri per me sono una casa. I libri non fanno una casa, sono una casa, nel senso che, così come pari una porta, apri un libro e ci entri. Dentro trovi un'altra dimensione temporale, e un'altra dimensione spaziale. Trovi un calore, un focolare. Mi siedo a leggere un libro e avverto una sensazione di tepore. Come mi succedeva in quelle fredde notti passate sui gradini d'ingresso.

In cetatea cuvintelor despre care v-am povestit, mirosul de fragi era mirosul caracteristic casei despre care inca nu v-am povestit.

But I also hoped that [she] had chosen California because she thought that was her true home, the place where she really belonged, where it was always warm and you could dance in the rain, pick grapes right off the vines, and sleep outside at night under the stars.

The place where you live - your home - is one of the most important things in a body's life.

A little while after we'd moved into the depot, we heard Mom and Dad talking about buying us kids real beds, and we said they shouldn't do it. We liked our boxes. They made going to bed seem like an adventure.

If things don't work out, you can always come home, he said. I'll be here for you. You know that, don't you? I know. I knew that in his way, he would be. I also knew I'd never be coming back.