وطنك هو المكان الذى ارتديت فيه أول سروال طويل فى حياتك، ولعبت أول مباراة كرة قدم، وسمعت أول قصيدة، وكتبت أول خطاب حب، وتلقيت أول علقة من معلمك أو خصومك فى المدرسة.. وطنك هو المكان الذى ذهبت فيه للمسجد لأول مرة وحدك، وخلعت حذاءك متحديًا صديقك أن يقف جوارك لتريا أيكما أطول قامة.. وطنك هو أول مكان تمرّغت على عشبه فى صراع مع صديق لدود من أجل فتاة لا تعرف شيئا عن كليكما
أحمد خالد توفيقWinter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
Edith SitwellI had spent my whole life feeling homesick. The only difference between the two of us was that I didn't know what or where home was.
Marian KeyesCuando estamos lejos de la patria nunca la recordamos en sus inviernos. La distancia borra las penas del invierno, las poblaciones desamparadas, los niños descalzos en el frío. El arte del recuerdo sólo nos trae campiñas verdes, flores amarillas y rojas, el cielo azulado del himno nacional.
Pablo NerudaLanguage is the only homeland.
Czesław MiłoszTags: roots home language belonging
Home can be only one place. That's what 'home' means . 'Two homes' is like 'most unique.' Unique means one of a kind, nothing else like it. And just like something is either unique or it's not, someplace is either home or it's not. Telling me I had two homes just made me feel like I had no home at all.
Stacy DeKeyserTags: home
Best way to live in California is to be from somewheres else.
Cormac McCarthyTags: home strangers california settling foreigners
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.
Miranda JulyI let it go. It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home.
Joanne HarrisTags: acceptance home
He had a little single-story house, three bedrooms, a full bathroom and a half bathroom, a combined kitchen-living room-dining room with windows that faced west, a small brick porch where there was a wooden bench worn by the wind that came down from the mountains and the sea, the wind from the north, the wind through the gaps, the wind that smelled like smoke and came from the south. He had books he'd kept for more than twenty-five years. Not many. All of them old. He had books he'd bought in the last ten years, books he didn't mind lending, books that could've been lost or stolen for all he cared. He had books that he sometimes received neatly packaged and with unfamiliar return addresses, books he didn't even open anymore. He had a yard perfect for growing grass and planting flowers, but he didn't know what flowers would do best there--flowers, as opposed to cacti or succulents. There would be time (so he thought) for gardening. He had a wooden gate that needed a coat of paint. He had a monthly salary.
Roberto BolañoTags: books home 163 amalfitano
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