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The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against read more
The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his
repose.
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
The strength of a nation derives from the integrity of the home.
The strength of a nation derives from the integrity of the home.
When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And read more
When the hornet hangs in the holly hock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose,
And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock,
And summer is near its close--
It's--Oh, for the gate, and the locust lane;
And dusk, and dew, and home again!
A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.
A house that does not have one warm, comfy chair in it is soulless.
Home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse.
Home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse.
Estate agents. You can't live with them, you can't live with them. The first sign of these nasty purulent sores read more
Estate agents. You can't live with them, you can't live with them. The first sign of these nasty purulent sores appeared round about 1894. With their jangling keys, nasty suits, revolting beards, moustaches and tinted spectacles, estate agents roam the land causing perturbation and despair. If you try and kill them, you're put in prison: if you try and talk to them, you vomit. There's only one thing worse than an estate agent but at least that can be safely lanced, drained and surgically dressed. Estate agents. Love them or loathe them, you'd be mad not to loathe them.
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes read more
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.
Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
