Nicholas Sparks Quotes

Even though I live in America more, I feel like when I go to Adelaide, that's when I get to go home.

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

I loved New York, but I never quite felt like New York was my home either.

I had spent my whole life feeling homesick. The only difference between the two of us was that I didn't know what or where home was.

And I think a lot of us have fantasies of going back to where we're from, or when we do go back we're so nostalgic about it.

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

When memories fade, can one ever really return home?

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

You create a world away from home and make new rooms for yourself. But when you arrive back home in your old rooms, the world you've made for yourself ceases to be real. Everything seems to crumble. Anyone who's been sent away to boarding school can understand that.

Some of my songs are about the feeling you belong somewhere else. But there's also something grounding about coming from a small town.

I never really felt like I belonged in California.

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

Maybe that's what growing up means, in the end - you go far enough in the direction of - somewhere - and you realise that you've neutered the capacity of the term home to mean anything. [...] We don't get an endless number of orbits away from the place where meaning first arises, that treasure-house of first experiences. What we learn, instead, is that our adventures secure us in our isolation. Experience revokes our licence to return to simpler times. Sooner or later, there's no place remotely like home.

I don't like coming home. It keeps me from being nostalgic, which by nature I am. Even before the plane begins its descent, I find myself dreading the questions left unanswered by my childhood.

I grew up in Florida, and I wanted to go home and I couldn't. I didn't have the money. The book [The Tiger Rising] was a way to go home.

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

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

I never had a sense of home.

In all my stories and novels, no one ever escapes Louisiana. Maybe that is because my soul never left Louisiana, although my body did go to California.

I've written a number of songs over the years and it's a big part of my life, this sort of tension between a longing for home and the call for the open road. It's sort of like a tug between two families. I even love to miss my home.

We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.

I hate this feeling. Like I'm here, but I'm not. Like someone cares. But they don't. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.

I miss everyone. I can remember being young and feeling a thing and identifying it as homesickness, and then thinking well now that’s odd, isn’t it, because I was home, all the time. What on earth are we to make of that?

How long have you been away from the country?" Laruja asked Ibarra. "Almost seven years." "Then you have probably forgotten all about it." "Quite the contrary. Even if my country does seem to have forgotten me, I have always thought about it.

Uprootedness uproots everything except the need for roots.