She considered what had made Denmark home to her anyway. Was it the sense of familiarity? That wherever she went there were echoes of a hundred memories she could pluck from her thoughts?

It might be well enough to wander if you've a place and people to come back to, but I tell you now there's no desolation like wanting to go home and truly not knowing where it is.

The city was lovely. There could be no place in the world to which he belonged so completely.That was why he'd always dreamed of leaving, and why he'd always been so afraid to go.

Aryami Bose's home had been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between its walls still permeated the house.

This is home, it's the only place I want to be, but at the same time everything familiar feels strange. It's the same as it ever was except without the people who most belong here.

I had a dream about you. You were a meow in a vacuum, and I was a bark on carpet. I told your parents I’d have you home by ten, but that was a lie, because you were homeless. 


This person realizes that staying home means blowing off everyone this person has ever known. But the desire to stay in is very strong. This person wants to run a bath and then read in bed.

When you are born--what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own-- stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalisation have to say.

I pause in my movements and feel extremely sad, I am heading to Sara’s because I no longer have a home, because home is where the heart is and I am not sure where my heart is any more.

Where you are born--what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own-- stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalisation have to say.

You may hate the war, but never hate the ones that fight. For they do not choose when or where to fight. All they chose was to protect who they love and even the people they don't know.

He values home as the place where he can "be himself" in the sense of trampling on all the restraints which civilized humanity has found to be indispensable for tolerable social intercourse.

Maybe home is something we have to make, and remake, over and over. But it's hard to make things when you're afraid―or you're certain—that they'll just be broken.

When tragedy hits close to home, like your neighbor’s house, it really makes you stop and think. And while you’re thinking, I’ll be speeding off in the getaway car. 


Human feelings are queer things -- I am much happier -- black-leading the stove's -- making the beds and sweeping the floors at home, than I should be living like a fine lady anywhere else.