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.

I am far frae my hame, an' i'm weary aften whiles,
For the longed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome read more

I am far frae my hame, an' i'm weary aften whiles,
For the longed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles.

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to

Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to

My whinstone house my castle is,
I have my own four walls.

My whinstone house my castle is,
I have my own four walls.

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.

What's the good of a home if you are never in it?

What's the good of a home if you are never in it?

For a man's house is his castle.

For a man's house is his castle.

If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the read more

If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.

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.