A Quote by Robyn Davidson
And there are new kinds of nomads, not people who are at home everywhere, but who are at home nowhere. I was one of them
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Home. One place is just like another, really. Maybe not. But truth is it's all just rock and dirt and people are roughly the same. I was born up there but I'm no stranger here. Have always felt at home everywhere, even in Virginia, where they hate me. Everywhere you go there's nothing but the same rock and dirt and houses and people and deer and birds. They give it all names, but I'm at home everywhere. Odd thing: unpatriotic. I was at home in England. I would be at home in the desert. In Afghanistan or far Typee. All mine, it all belongs to me. My world.
The man who has a house everywhere has a home nowhere
Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey. I'm home. I'm home.
I have become a queer mixture of the East and the West, out of place everywhere, at home nowhere.
In this life, nobody has forever in which to leave home, to return, to make a new home, or to open the door to someone. Death doesn't wait while we tidy everything up. And there are several kinds of dying.
We don't see the people who are doing real things getting enough props. We often see politicians who are everywhere but nowhere at the same goddamn time. You know the kind of person: You see them everywhere on television but nowhere in front of your face.
Traveling carries with it the curse of being at home everywhere and yet nowhere, for wherever one is some part of oneself remains on another continent.
To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world—impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define. The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito.
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. . . . Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
I was an at-home father, taking care of them for seven years when they were babies. I was one of those new-age, at-home dads.
The house begins to be a home. The unfamiliar places are beginning to fold the familiar objects into their keeping and to cozy them down. Objects that swore at each other when the movers heaved them into the new rooms have subsided into corners and sit to lick their feet and wash their faces like cats accepting a new home.
Americans don't want immigration. They don't want any more. Why can't we have a home? You see on 'National Geographic,' 'Oh, the indigenous people, they have a home.' Everyone else can have a home. We are the only people on Earth not allowed to have a home.
The traveler feels at home everywhere, because she is never at home anywhere.
Philosophy is properly home-sickness; the wish to be everywhere at home.
Shakespeare is one of the best means of culture the world possesses. Whoever is at home in his pages is at home everywhere.
Is there a home, a home for me? Where the people stay until eternity? Is there a road that winds up, underneath the big green tree? Is there a home, a home for me?
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