Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Dweller. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Dweller Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Robert Burns,Martin Heidegger,Beryl Markham,Harriet Van Horne,Agatha Christie for you to enjoy and share.
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
Only if we are capable of dwelling, only then can we build
The character of a dwelling, like that of a man, grows slowly.
One who roams the channels after dark, searching for buried treasure.
She's a gipsy really. That's why she can't stay in houses. She wanders away and comes back again.
An Anchorite was a girl who lived like a hermit in a cell, but in the wall of a church. A living human sacrifice, in a way.
A castaway adrift on my own little island - rich and with my family along with thousands of beautiful, drunken tourists to keep me company." - excerpt from Confessions of an Internet Pornographer.
A hollow edifice erected for the habitation of man, rat, mouse, beetle, cockroach, fly, mosquito, flea, bacillus, and microbe.
Gregarious hermit. I wanted the warmth of spontaneous connection and the freedom to be left alone.
Lurk A Novel by Adam Vine
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
Lunar. Cyborg. Fugitive. Outlaw. Outcast.
a chronic malcontent, albeit quite a purposeless one.
I believe the technical term is "space cadet." But she is the kind of space cadet many people aspire to be. My sister is fully alive to each moment and each observation.
A little roving, solitary thing.
I'm a survivalist and a survivor.
A dwelling should be not a retreat from space, but life in space.
alter kocker like me. Street-word is Hal hired Coral
RIMER, n. A poet regarded with indifference or disesteem.
A guest is a jewel on the cushion of hospitality
Prisoner of Her Own Captivity
My roommate is a 240-pound homicidal hermit. For dinner he's fixing me a dead fox he scraped off the highway near Ponchatoula, and after that we're taking a leaky tin boat out on a windy lake to spy on some semi-retarded fishermen. Don't you wish you were here?
I'm a drifter and an outsider. There's not one single environment I can totally belong to.
People souls - perennial loners. They're loners like stray stars.
A less popular name for the Second Person of that delectable newspaper Trinity, the Roomer, the Bedder, and the Mealer.
Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world. But what else are you?
I seem to myself, as in a dream,
An accidental guest in this dreadful body.
A tormented soul; forever trapped in the recesses of my mind; eternally locked in a morbid paradise.
Traveller is my only companion ... He and I ... wander out in the mountains and enjoy sweet confidence.
Something lived in there, all right. He could smell it, a stench that made him think of damp plaster and moldering sofas and ancient mattresses rotting beneath half-liquid coats of mildew. It was familiar, that smell.
This person realizes that staying home means blowing off everyone this person has ever known. But the desire to stay in is very strong. This person wants to run a bath and then read in bed.
What's a Laster? A dead man.
A person with no friends is a house with no windows.
This person has just arrived on this planet, knows nothing about it, has no standards by which to judge it. This person does not care what it becomes. It is eager to become absolutely anything it is supposed to be.
You are caught in an empty house, in a box, in a place that is not happy. You are trapped inside you and wherever you go, there you are.
I am a wanderer passionately in love with life.
The voluntary captive
The speechless the prisoner
Which I hide in my very depths ...
A house is a machine for living in.
That's the depressing part of places like this. Guest houses run by broken-down gentlepeople. They're full of failures - of people who have never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who - who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old and tired and finished.
A home filled with nothing but yourself. It's heavy, that lightness. It's crushing, that emptiness.
Dwelling-place and food are useful for life but give it no significance: the immediate goals of the housekeeper are only means, not true ends.
There are rooms one never leaves.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
He [the householder] is the appointer of his owne circumstance, and his house is his castle.
Bohemian - a respectable sort of tramp.
He's sick." "What with?" "Sitzenlust. Chronic. The opposite of wanderlust.
Spy
Though at the moment I am a prisoner, my spirit remains free. While everyone is fighting a never-ending battle to see who will survive amid so much bloodshed, I don't need to fight anymore, only wait for people I've never met to decide who I am.
I would describe myself as a "budding adventurer." I've transitioned away from being a straight-up backpacker, but I think I need another trip or two to get the adventurer degree.
If human beings cannot inhabit the earth, where else could they live?
Living one floor below Paradise.
Our lives are like a house. Some people are allowed on the lawn, some onto the porch, some get into the vestibule or the kitchen. The better friends are invited deeper into our home, into our living room.'
'And some are let into the bedroom,' said Gamache.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Dignified, like a guest.
You are what you inhabit.
There were momentary visitations. I was a visitor, not an inhabitant. I think I say that at the beginning of the book: "I have made visits to the earth in my body, but it's always been as a visitor."
This world today makes one by the day a recluse
I'm a bit of a vagabond - a person who loses time and space because you don't know where you are.
As a model, it's a gypsy kind of life: living in hotels, working all the time, ordering room service instead of cooking for yourself. There's absolutely no nest-building.
Someone who seeks nothing but his own fate no longer has any companions, he stands quite alone and has only cold, universal space around him.
There are personalities so powerful that they leave their stamp on any place they inhabit. Their presence is always there, like a spoor, whether or not they themselves are.
A person who is seated instead of standing erect - destinies hang upon such a thing as that.
We are sitting on our honeymoon bed in the honeymoon suite. We are in a state of honeymoon, in our honey month. These words are so sweet: honey, moon. This bed is so big, we could live on it. We have been happily marooned
honey marooned
on this bed for days.
I wasn't really living anywhere ... I was just kinda hanging out. I would live from week to week in places.
A man with an immense capacity for the enjoyment of existence.
Seagull owner?" "Flies in, shits on everything, and then leaves.
Imagine yourself as a living house.
One who does not rouse themself when it is time to rise, who, though capable, is full of sloth, whose will and thought are weak, that lazy and idle person will never find their way to true knowledge.
To survive the daily bumps and bruises that come with living our lives, we all need a gentle and loving home both within and outside of ourselves.
I've always been an outsider; a displaced person.
If I could, I'd be a recluse. I do want to be one. I'm trying really hard. But it's a difficult thing to pull off in this job.
A house is not a machine to live in. It is the shell of man, his extension, his release, his spiritual emanation.
Stubborn, snarly male.
I'm a much worse guest than I am a host, and I'm not an awfully good host either. I really like being alone.
You don't live in luxury! You are relegated to sleep in the little store room behind the kitchen with the cockroaches and rats and are at the mercy of Mrs. Gupta,' Reena was indignant. 'It's five-star accommodation compared to a mud hut.
Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.
What does a house want to be?House-- Louis Kahn
I live like a crazy old pack rat.
I think I was a nomad in another life.
Well, that's a 'fresher'. I'm going on break.
I am restless. I don't mind leaving this comfortable, static life. I could live a year on my own in a remote village.
Aborigines, n. Persons of little worth found cumbering the soil of a newly discovered country. They soon cease to cumber; they fertilize.
Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking.
The lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master.
A languid janitor bears
His lantern through colonnades
And the architecture swoons.
The Wanderer
What is she like?
I was told
she is a
melancholy soul.
She is like
the sun to the night;
a momentary gold.
A star when dimmed
by dawning light;
the flicker of
a candle blown.
A lonely kite
lost in flight
someone once
had flown.
My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless.
Habitat has opened up unprecedented opportunities for me to cross the chasm that separates those of us who are free, safe, financially secure, well fed and housed, and influential enough to shape our own destiny from our neighbors who enjoy few, if any, of these advantages of life.
Slave. Minion. Fiend. The others who have come before me have been called such things, but I prefer to think of myself as a disciple; a devout follower of my voluptuous mistress.
Con-tu-ber-nal(noun). One who occupies
the same tent; a tent-fellow, comrade.
The thought of Percy Prewitt as my contubernal causes me to break out in hives.
-From the personal dictionary of
Caroline Trent
A restless spirit who can't reach his goal, can't find a home until I've found my soul.
An imperfect person living an imperfect, limited life.
House guests (I don't care who they are, how much I like them, or how long it's been since I last saw them) are pests, much like roaches and mice. But there are differences. You can trap roaches and mice. And they don't want you to drive them to Disneyland.
room below and a bedchamber above.
What wants to live in you may be waiting ... at the end of a long loneliness.
This life at best is but an inn, And we the passengers.
A person born with an instinct for poverty.
Asks the Possible of the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling-place?" "In the dreams of the Impotent," comes the answer.
I'm an air-conditioned gypsy.
I see them through the cracks between the walls, their houses not much more than a pile of food and supplies on one side and sleeping mats on the other. I wonder what they do in the winter. Or what they do for a toilet.
[Reacher] knew people with houses. He had talked to them, with the same kind of detached interest he would talk to a person who kept snakes as pets or entered ballroom dancing competitions.