H. P. Lovecraft Quotes

I've always been an outsider. Even in London. If I returned to Scotland, I'd feel a complete foreigner.

The worst feeling in the world is the homesickness that comes over a man occasionally when he is at home.

Exile is not a time frame. Exile is an experience. It's a sentiment.

I have to live within my memories, within my private universe, and continually return to China, the land where my thoughts are locked. This is a very painful kind of existence, this feeling of nowhereness.

Chekhov is this poet of melancholy and isolation and of wishing you were somewhere else than where you are.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander on the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while dry leaves are blowing.

I've been homesick for countries I've never been, and longed to be where I couldn't be.

I have been a stranger in a foreign land.

In my case, I write in the past because I'm not really part of the present. I have nothing valid to say about anything current, though I have something to say about what existed then.

I know how men in exile feed on dreams.

L.A. really doesn't feel like home to me anymore.

If you don't belong somewhere, that outsider status you have gives you perspective. Of course, another word for outsider is 'exile,' and that's not fun at all.

I never felt I belonged. I was always an outsider.

South Bend is a nice town, but you know that phrase - 'I was homesick even when I was home.'

Very often, as I wander through life, I'll get that old feeling that I've come back from the future, and I'm living in the past. And it's a really horrible feeling.

I've got to confess... I do feel slightly like I've been born in the wrong time.

I'm one of these guys who always feel like the outsider, you know? I'm always longing to be part of something, you know?

Music sweeps by me as a messenger - Carrying a message that is not for me

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

I´m a stranger in a strange land.

For twenty years I have ached to go back home, when there was nobody there to whom I could return.

That moment - to this ... may be years in the way they measure, but it's only one sentence back in my mind - there are so many days when living stops and pulls up and sits and waits like a train on the rails. I pass the hotel at 8 and at 5; there are cats in the alleys and bottles and bums, and I look up at the window and think, I no longer know where you are, and I walk on and wonder where the living goes when it stops.

The whole world was nothing but an exile with no hope of a return.

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

The mere passage of time makes us all exiles.