Best 12501 quotes in «home quotes» category

Rumah adalah tempat di mana aku merasa bisa pulang. (Dimas Suryo)

Roy Dale suspected that Mississippi was beautiful. He wasn't sure. He didn't have anything to compare it to. He hadn't even ever been out of the Delta.

Sabotage isolated them from their home, thwarting any hope of outside help. Frantic, unreliable sightings of frightening things – horrible things - led to chaos. The crew, terrified, opted to die fighting and went hunting for their attacker. Kaine’s only regret was that they found it. It killed them all. Systematically.

Sam scanned the orchards. U-Pickers laughed and posed for photos with apples on their heads, babies in the baskets, hugging trees. She lifted her head to study the sky, blue as her eyes. The clouds moved across the sun, blocking it out for long distances at a time, causing the landscape in front of her to become illuminated one patchwork piece at a time: the rolling hills lined with grass and endless rows of trees, peach, tart cherry, apples of every variety; blueberry bushes sitting at the bottom of the hill where the rain pooled; the old red barn where high school kids doled out baskets for fruit, which Sam's father weighed when they returned; the old shed where more high schoolers handed out free donut samples and sips of apple cider to arriving cars; the farmhouse with shutters- designed with apple cutouts- where her grandparents, Willo and Gordon, lived; the blue-green waters of Suttons Bay stretching out beyond the trees, the Old Mission Peninsula jutting into it; the family cornfields that sat across M-22 and would soon be cut into an intricate corn maze filled with spooks and goblins to scare fall visitors. This slice of northern Michigan was Sam's home, her whole world.

Sara knew that behind its locked front door no home was routine. Not the house of her childhood, not the apartment of her husband's. not the world they were building together with Willow and Patrick. All households had their mysteries, their particular forms of dysfunction.

Satyrs aren't dryads, but we have roots, too. Camp Half Blood is mine.

School taught me how to do language, maths and science; it failed to teach me the very basics of how to keep my home healthy.

Sejurus aku ingat apa yang dikatakan Bu Ratih sebelum aku keluar dari ruangannya. She said that the place you called home isn't the place that you think as building or such. Home is everything that make you feel so easy and make you feel wants to live to the fullest. Home is anywhere that will not underestimate you in every aspect of life. And sometimes home has a heartbeat, and shares the same oxygen as you. Sometimes home is like that. gee! and everything in it was a home to me.

Sentiment has never been unpopular except with a few sick persons who are made sicker by the sight of a child, a glimpse of a wedding, or the thought of a happy home.

She always said, 'When I'm home, I've got to get things done, even if there are visitors. Elizabeth knows how to relax in her own house.' And then she would shake her head, as if Elizabeth had remarkable powers.

she believed in the stars to guide her home but to the moon's glow she lost her way.

She could have lived in comfort, but I doubt if it occurred to her to try.

She clutched onto Lance just a little tighter, and the idea of home seemed like just a distant, foreign concept. Suddenly, she didn't care if she ever made it back.

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?

She did not know where her home was anymore, and this idea didn’t frighten her like it should. - Bohemian Grove

She hesitated, wiping her hands off on her apron. “I’m not sure if I’ll be here when you get back. This place is a little—it’s a little much for me.” She didn’t have to tell him how it was. He had lived here for years, in a house that wanted to be silent until the silence was broken by a certain step and a certain voice, in a house holding its breath for someone’s return. If anyone held their breath long enough, they were dead.

She had the feeling that if she went home, she might never get away. She thought of birds caught in nets. There was something inside her, beating against her ribs, urging her to do things she might not otherwise attempt. She had the strongest desire to get lost.

She looks up into the darkening sky, she knows she'll never stop hoping. Never stop searching the stars, wondering whether any of them could be the one Abel someday calls home.

She lit wildfires inside my soul and fanned them with hurricanes.

Shelter can be hard to find. A place can become our home for reasons we do not understand. We build the memories that turn into what we are, then what we were, as we look back.

She pondered the arrangements of the paintings on a wall like a writer pondered commas.

She loves him so much. He is her native place.

She smelled of home...as if home had never been a place, but had always been this little person whom she'd carried alongside her.

She's always thought of home as a physical destination but perhaps... home, like the moon will follow wherever she goes.

She referred to "home," but it wasn't a place she referred to; it was Jamie, and Louie, and her sister, and even her brother, and the rest of the Europa show people. I guessed maybe that was the key--to figure out who your home was and find a way to keep them with you.

She said, "Daddy thinks that all the world's magic is almost evolved out." I thought of Roebuck Lake, its swamps and sloughs and loblollies and breaks of cypress and cane, its sunken treetops and stobs and bream beds and sleepy gar rolling over and over and over, its baptizing pools and bridges and mussels and mosquitoes and turkey vultures and, now in the drought, the gray flaking mud-flats and logs crowded with turtles and sometimes a fat snake yawning its tame old cottony mouth like a well-fed dog in a pen. I said, "Is that what the freak show is?" She said, "Dirty miracles.

She stood awkwardly for another endless moment -- a total and obvious outsider, even though this was her house where she lived. It felt like she didn't belong anywhere. It felt like she probably never would.

She took the long way home,” said Ruth. “Some do, you know. They seem lost. Sometimes they might even head off in the wrong direction. Lots of people give up, say they’re gone forever, but I don’t believe that. Some make it home, eventually.

She wanted to burn the whole place to ashes but, at the same time, it would be kind of nice to see it again. Home.

She who has the excellence of home virtues, and can expend within the means of her husband, is a help in the domestic state

She was still hugging the cat. "Poor slob," she said, tickling his head, "poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like." She smiled, and let the cat drop to the floor. "It's like Tiffany's," she said. [...] It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there, not with those kind men in their nice suits, and that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

Since our first meeting I knew that I have a home other than Iraq A home, where safety, peace, and love

Small Moth... She's slicing ripe white peaches into the Tony the Tiger bowl and dropping slivers for the dog poised vibrating by her foot to stop their fall when she spots it, camouflaged, a glimmer and then full on- happiness, plashing blunt soft wings inside her as if it wants to escape again.

-Sintiéndolo mucho, tendrás que venir. Sé que ella intenta protegerte, pero debes saber que cuando todo esto haya acabado, tendrás un hogar, muchachito. Con alguien que te querrá y cuidará de ti.

Sitting in a corner, I live like a toad Oh! How I love my room: my tiny abode! Here I wake up; and I sleep in here The world far away; yet virtually near Not that I'm jailed in this place of grace Just don't want to face another face

. . . sitting up cross-legged and noting the light, how it fills the room in streams, etching out the shape of Zach recumbent, a bold coastline in a clarion sky. I drop anchor here, thinks Rachel. Anywhere here. You are my home, my horizon, my shore. How long is the coast of Britain?

Small wonder how pitiably we love our home, cling in her skirts at night, rejoice in her wide star-seducing smile, when every star strikes us sick with the fright: do we really exist at all?

Smart people avoid living in ‘Smart’ homes.

Softer memories once lived there. Where there is now burning. Where there is now blood. That was where childhood held you. Instead there is a forgetting. Instead there is a fireflood. You have never forgotten how home was more than just a language you grew inside your mouth before you said it in a way your tongue bled. When it lived as a place outside of your body and more than just in your heart and head. Where you once taught your children how to speak and walk and sang them lullabies till they fell asleep in their beds. How it has become a legend, just a holy story you pass from praying hands to praying hands. Where once you built hallowed walls there is now simply scorched earth and bloodied sands. A memory of the scared land that it once was before your whole world was set completely to flames How your heart breaks everyday because home, home no longer remembers how to say your name. Home was your refuge, and I wish they would see. because after cruelly taking it from you, they call you refugee.

So if someone is thinking about me, then that's the place I go ?

So immutably does a human being surrender to the mist of the Motherland! Just as a tooth will not stop aching until the nerve is killed, so is it with us; we shall probably not stop responding to the call of the the Motherland until we swallow arsenic.

,,So maybe, for me, home is not the city, but the people.

So many cameras are on me. This press conference is going to be on every news channel and posted on the internet. Thousands, maybe millions of people will see me. And they will all be thinking: Victim. Victim. Victim.

Some candle inside him was dangerously close to guttering. A definition of loneliness surfaced in his mind: when you suddenly understand that the story of your life isn't what you thought it was.

Some books are so familiar, reading them is like being home again.

So maybe home is something that changes as we do, something that expands and contracts with time and loss.

Some of us manage to think bigger, brighter, deeper thoughts. Some of these thoughts already shape the kind of research we do. Some of them will prove to be right, and our understanding of our home will deepen. Our home, one day, will be less of a mystery to us.

Some of us can live without a society but not without a family.

Some stories won't have a happy ending, but there's always hope that the next one will. Hope is everything. Even when there's nothing else. Especially when there's nothing else.

Sometimes all we need is a hug that will make us feel home. The heartbeats that sound like a lullaby and the eyes which assure us that the world is not such a bad a place yet every time we stare into them.