Seanan McGuire Quotes

The dream is over. I gotta get down to reality. The good old days is garbage.

The word 'home', it seemed, once learned, was a hard one to forget.

You can go home again...so long as you understand that home is a place where you have never been.

Moving is easy, exciting, an adventure - when you're young. Later, not so much. I love Massachusetts, my old home. Sometimes, late at night, I even study the real estate ads in my old hometown. But it's not even a fantasy. My parents are both gone. The world I left doesn't exist anymore. Neither does the person I was.

I sing 'Beirut' for what the city is for me, but I am also singing as an exile.

All I wanted was what I'd already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.

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.

The reason you can never go home again isn't necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.

Through my college years, topping that ridge had always given me a great sense of being home, but time had diminished the emotion and I had begun to suspect that home was less a place than an empty page.

You can't go home again

You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

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

I was the walrus, but now I am John. And so my friends, you'll just have to carry on. The dream is over.

But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home, why had he thought so much about it and remembered it with such blazing accuracy, if it did not matter, and if this little town, and the immortal hills around it, was not the only home he had on earth? He did not know. All that he knew was that the years flow by like water, and that one day men come home again.

The Iran I'm dreaming of maybe doesn't exist anymore.

You can't really go back to where you came from. I don't think any of us can.

It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.

How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.

In the mind, in the heart, I was always home. I always imagined, really, going back home.

I once joked in a book that there are three things you can't do in life. You can't beat the phone company, you can't make a waiter see you until he is ready to see you, and you can't go home again. Since the spring of 1995, I have been quietly, even gamely, reassessing point number three.

To me, my house is always recreating what I lost in youth.

A home is a place in time. And no place stays the same after you finally grow up and leave it. No place can ever change as much as the person who grows up there.

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

And then, into the fantasy, as into a dream, would come the thought: it's not like this anymore; the world has changed. Just the way, even at that time fully two years after my mother's death, I'd catch myself thinking about her as alive; and would suddenly remember, an admonitory finger of grief upon my breast, that she was gone.

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.