Jacqueline Carey Quotes

On the flight over to the Gulf of Mexico, I wondered about how they say you can never go home again, but maybe an equally expensive reality is how many people, regardless of how many years or miles they put between themselves and where they were born, are never truly able to leave home.

All I ever want is to return to either Bangladesh, my motherland, or India, my adopted home.

Homeland is something one becomes aware of only through its loss.

I never seem to leave L.A., though I left L.A.

I've lived in Texas now longer than anywhere and then California and then Oklahoma, but yet Oklahoma is what I consider home.

It is more than twenty years since we left the city. This is a serious chunk of time, longer than the years we spent living there. Yet we still think of Jerusalem as our home. Not home in the sense of the place that you conduct your daily life or constantly return to. In fact, Jerusalem is our home almost against our wills. It is our home because it defines us, whether we like it or not.

Uprootedness uproots everything except the need for roots.

If you go anywhere, even paradise, you will miss your home.

I have two homes, like someone who leaves their hometown and/or parents and then establishes a life elsewhere. They might say that they're going home when they return to see old friends or parents, but then they go home as well when they go to where they live now. Sarajevo is home, Chicago is home.

If I knew I could never come back to Ireland, to England, I think I'd fall off the tree.

I'm living in California but I have a place that is mine in Chile and I belong there. I am no longer an exile.

Language, identity, place, home: these are all of a piece - just different elements of belonging and not-belonging.

It's strange coming back to Northern Ireland, but it feels like a home away from home.

In America, we all come from somewhere else, and we carry along some dream myth of home: a notion that something - our point of origin, our roots, the home country - is out there.

In the poetry of immigrants, nostalgia is as common as confetti at parades or platitudes at political conventions.

...wherever one is, some part of oneself remains on another continent.

New York has given me a lot, but I still don't consider it home.

But do you know this idea of the imaginary homeland? Once you set out from shore on your little boat, once you embark, you'll never truly be at home again. What you've left behind exists only in your memory, and your ideal place becomes some strange imaginary concoction of all you've left behind at every stop.

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.

You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back.

It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland at the moment we are about to lose it.

Many Lexington natives believe they live in a special place, one impossible to leave. I'm not so sure about that - or it's more accurate to say I think a more general truth exists beneath it: the place you first call home stays with you always, whether you remain or go.

I am delighted to be back home in Galway, the place I first came to as a 19-year-old in 1960. It's here where my heart is and will forever be.

I've gone very far, far away, but my character keeps me close to home.