Umberto Eco Quotes

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

I don't know what 'home' or 'abroad' is any more.

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

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.

All of a sudden I didn't fit in anywhere. Not at school, not at home...and every time I turned around, another person I'd known forever felt like a stranger to me. Even I felt like a stranger to me.

Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.

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

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.

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

Everywhere I go, I feel strange.

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.

I've always been an outsider; a displaced person.

I've never quite understood that feeling: that you arrive in a strange place, yet you want to have nothing but familiar experiences.

I never really felt like I belonged in California.

I feel like I've never had a home, you know? I feel related to the country, to this country, and yet I don't know exactly where I fit in... There's always this kind of nostalgia for a place, a place where you can reckon with yourself.

I don't feel that I belong anywhere. Or rather, if there's a place I belong, I don't feel I'm there.

I'm not even sure that I want to go back... The Zimbabwe that I really loved, the Zimbabwe that I grew up in, just isn't there anymore, and I'm not sure about the country that has replaced it.

I've never felt at home in Kortedala, or in Gothenburg, so I always felt like I needed to go somewhere and find some kind of perspective on things.

I am in truth the Steppenwolf that I often call myself; that beast astray that finds neither home nor joy nor nourishment in a world that is strange and incomprehensible to him.

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

I´m a stranger in a strange land.

When I'm at school in the city, I don't feel particularly worldly or wise. It's only when I come back home that I remember exactly why I left.

Home ...Home. ...the word, ...has ...no ...meaning

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?

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.