Lewis Grizzard Quotes

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

Everyone comes back. It makes no difference how far we wander, we always have our country, our land, in our souls and our minds.

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

until I have been able to bury my head so deep in dear London that I can forget that I have ever been away I am inconsolable.

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

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

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

Every day, I wish there was a moment when I could go back to my house and my land.

So many of my films involve houses or homes that have been abandoned. People trying to get back home. That's an idea that I keep dealing with.

I am away from home and must always write home, even if any home of mine has long since floated away into eternity.

At this moment, my soul is in Lebanon, my heart in Paris, and my body in New York.

exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. It is the unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home: its essential sadness can never be surmounted. And while it is true that literature and history contain heroic, romantic, glorious, even triumphant episodes in an exile’s life, these are no more than efforts meant to overcome the crippling sorrow of estrangement.

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

Home pulls. It draws you back to tell you you don't belong.

How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.

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.

I don't hate it here," she said automatically. Surprising herself, she realized that as much as she'd been trying to convince herself otherwise, she was telling the truth. "It's just that I don't belong here." He gave her a meloncholy smile. "If it's any consolation, when I was growing up, I didn't feel like I belonged here, either. I dreamed about going to New York. But it's strange, because when I finally escaped this place, I ended up missing it more than I thought I would. There's something about the ocean that just calls to me.

I have lived in the East for nearly thirty years now, but many of my books prove that I am never very far away from Ohio in my thoughts, and that the clocks that strike in my dreams are often the clocks of Columbus.

The impulse for much writing is homesickness. You are trying to get back home, and in your writing you are invoking that home, so you are assuaging the homesickness.

I suppose everybody must be always just a little homesick.

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 miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there's nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here.

I never miss England.

What greater grief than the loss of one's native land.