Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Dwells. 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 Dwells Quotes And Sayings by 99 Authors including Louis Kahn,Simone De Beauvoir,Amy Leigh Mercree,Winston S. Churchill,V.c. Andrews for you to enjoy and share.
What does a house want to be?House-- Louis Kahn
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.
I surround myself with bliss. My home is a blissful oasis that nourishes me and brings me joy.
We build dwellings and thereafter they build us.
I lay so still in the gloom I could hear the house breathe, and the boards of the floors whispered, conniving a way to keep me here forever.
Asks the Possible of the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling-place?" "In the dreams of the Impotent," comes the answer.
A dwelling should be not a retreat from space, but life in space.
Lurk A Novel by Adam Vine
A home filled with nothing but yourself. It's heavy, that lightness. It's crushing, that emptiness.
The state of presence is the only state in which creative energy is available to you.
a deep smothering emptiness
A creature cloistered now by deliberate choice and still in the throes of enforced apprenticeship to, rather than voluntary or even acquiescent participation in, breathing
No one can be so welcome a guest that he will not become an annoyance when he has stayed three continuous days in a friend's house. [Lat., Hospes nullus tam in amici hospitium diverti potest, Quin ubi triduum continuum fuerit jam odiosus siet.
Still I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake and no birds sing. For I sent the bath towel to the wash this morning, and omitted to put out another. I have no towel.
Strikes, eases, dies, leaves a temporary silence.
For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Live. For Now. For the time being.
We are here for what amounts to a few/hours,/a day at most./We feel around making sense of the terrain,/our own new limbs,/Bumping up against a herd of bodies/until one becomes home./Moments sweep past. The grass bends/then learns again to stand.
Memories. Weighty emptinesses. I live in a memory the size and shape of a house.
We yearn for an unquestioned experience of belonging, to feel at home with ourselves and others, at ease and fully accepted. But the trance of unworthiness keeps the sweetness of belonging out of reach.
We arrived in Ulm just after the honeymoon, the moving there only prolonging it. Having slept that glorious jet-lag sleep right into evening on our first day, we took a walk through the streets of our new city, laughing aloud at our good fortune. How could we be living here?
Stasis, Iseult det Midenzi told herself for the thousandth time since dawn. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.
room below and a bedchamber above.
It is an empty room, that afterwards, a soledad, and it sits there at the center of a person's life and waits to be filled.
The high-ceilinged rooms, the little balconies, alcoves, nooks and angles all suggest sanctuary, escape, creature comfort. The reader, the scholar, the browser, the borrower is king.
My place is placeless, a trace of the traceless.
The house was left; the house was deserted. It was left like a shell on a sandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it. The long life seemed to have set in; the trifling airs, nibbling, the clammy breaths, fumbling, seemed to have triumphed.
..
Give house-room to the best; 'tis never known
Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
However convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here.
The entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room.
Encroach, v.
The first three nights we spent together, I couldn't sleep. I wasn't used to your breathing, your feet on my legs, your weight in my bed. In truth, I still sleep better when I'm alone. But now I allow that sleep isn't always the most important thing.
One of the main uses of a home is to stay in it, when one is too weak and spiritless for conforming, without effort, to the ways of other houses.
Visiting is a pleasure; being visited is usually a mixed or ambivalent joy ... The visitor can always go home; the visitee is already home, trapped like a rat in a drainpipe.
I walked over, my eyes scanning Luna Blu, my house, and Dave's. But it was the building behind them, that empty hotel, that had the tiniest light, provided by one word, written in fluorescent paint. Maybe it wasn't what was once there, in real life. But in this one, it said it all: STAY.
A life rooted deeply lives and grows in memory.
Our bodies, warm comfortable and familiar. But when we look out ... . Just out there, we wonder if we occupy a special place..!! Are these bodies welcoming or hostel..!! We can stay forever wondering or maybe we can leave home for the ultimate adventure
Houses seem to remember,' said he.
'Some rooms oppress us with a sense of lives that have been lived in them.
Action is the parent of results; dormancy, the brooding mother of discontent.
bullies the light out of the room.
The sleep which lay heavy upon the furniture, the room, the whole surroundings of which I formed but an insignificant pat and whose unconsciousness I should very soon return to share.
We spent a century closed up within four walls
and a roof.
We are claustrophobic.
We prefer the sun and the wind and the sea
though it bites some of us
who are made of metal, and tears papery hearts.
This place felt like home; not her home perhaps, but someone's home, accustomed to shelter and keep and befriend its master.
Living one floor below Paradise.
The family home is where the deepest resentments grow, subtle, relentless as moss, the furring of surfaces organic and gradual, as though life were no longer flesh and blood but bricks and mortar, a suffocation.
I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man ...
Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other's presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define.
Sometimes you linger days
upon a word,
a single, uncontaminated drop
of sound; for days
it trembles, liquid to the mind,
then falls:
mere denotation
dimming the undertow of language.
Sometimes home is a person.
Flavius's foot catches on a metal grate over a circular opening in the floor, and my stomach contracts when I think of why a room would need a drain. The stains of human misery that must have been hosed off these white tiles ...
Our natural and happiest life is when we lose ourselves in the exquisite absorption of home.
Yet there are some resting-places, / Life's untroubled interludes; / Times when neither past nor future / On the soul's deep calm intrudes.
IMPERMANENCE
Driftsand of the hours. Quietly disappearing,
continuously, even the happily consecrated design.
Life blows away, always: pillars already rise
without connection, carrying nothing but empty air.
Habit, laziness, and fear conspire to keep us comfortably within the familiar.
All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.
The inside of the cabin with the fire finally going is still the dear lovable abode now as sharp in my mind as I look at it as an unusually well focused snapshot
The sprig of ferns still stands in a glass of water, the books are there, the neat groceries ranged along the wall shelves
Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.
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.
The house didn't feel the same; it wasn't the same. The eeriness of that night permeated the walls and the suffocating warmth trapped in those walls. And I stood there, waiting for my feet to think, to move, knowing that they would decide to do just that. They had come this far.
We don't teach you how to dwell. We also don't teach you how to forget. We teach you how to move on.
A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.
The body is not a permanent dwelling, but a sort of inn which is to be left behind when one perceives that one is a burden to the host.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
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.
Any who live, stand alone in one place, together.
The night garden felt like a home, with the glittering sky for the ceiling, the bushes our rug, and the dilapidated pavilion our bed. He lit up the place like a heart-warming hearth fire. He was the walls of my sanctuary, the food for my eyes, the scent of a home. He was everything.
The relationship between man and space is none other than dwelling, strictly thought and spoken.
Being on sea saile, being on land settle.
[Being on sea, sail; being on land, settle.]
Wander at will,
Day after day,
Wander away,
Wandering still
Soul that canst soar!
Body may slumber:
Body shall cumber
Soul-flight no more.
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
When you live alone, your furnishings, your possessions, are always confronting you with the thinness of your existence.
Memories drifting and piling up quietly, like letters on the doormat of an empty house.
For the bliss of the deep abode is not lightly abandoned in favor of the self-scattering of the wakened state,
Gloomy calm of idle vacancy.
There is hardly anything at all. His life is suddenly a large, empty house, with each vacant room waiting to be furnished. His made-up wife. His invented father. His pretend childhood. He wonders if it is possible to unlie yourself.
It would be good to live in a perpetual state of leave-taking, never to go nor to stay, but to remain suspended in that golden emotion of love and longing; to be loved without satiety.
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb - or Dome of Worm - or Porch of Gnome - or some Elf's Catacomb?
Home - the nursery of the Infinite.
Absence becomes the greatest Presence.
It had been so brief a sojourn, not even a full century. He had been a guest in a mansion and he was not ungrateful. He was at once exhausted and refreshed. His stay was ended. Now he must gather up the shabby impedimenta of his mind and body and be on his way again.
Some sit and watch the life; some sail to the sea and the life watches them!
You do not feel like
dancing and there are no
daffodils,
only walls, your bedroom door, and the quiet
of the house, tucked asleep in the night's thick cover.
You wait for dawn. You wait for your
dreams. You wait in the night, and you hunger.
I smelled the clean house
and the wood-frame bed. It was all filler. The noise, the sound, they existed
just to take up space. My muscles flexed into the emptiness I still called home.
The stove, the bins, the cupboards, I had learned forever, make an inviolable throne room. From them I ruled; temporarily I controlled. I felt powerful, and I loved that feeling.
What remains is solitude.
There is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting
There are no permanent things, only fleeting moments of warmth and companionship, precious stationary seconds in a flicker of troubled days. The
Bound, elbow to elbow, darkness and night entered the dwelling.
[W]alking sometimes in a perfectly desolate plain where there have been no houses nor trees to guide me, I have been occasionally compelled to remain stationary for hours together, waiting till the rain came before continuing my journey.
We are the visitors in the lives of others; we visit them and we disappear!
Our abode in this world is transitory, our life therein is but a loan, our breaths are numbered and our indolence is manifest.
bliss. Practicing
Wonder, or wander?Wander-- Erin Healy
I am not loitering" said the Major. "I am simply indulging in a few moments of pastoral solitude"...
There was cement in her soul. It had been there for a while, an early morning disease of fatigue, shapeless desires, brief imaginary glints of other lives she could be living, that over the months melded into a piercing homesickness.
Look, I am living. On what? Neither the childhood nor future/ grows any smaller ... Superabundant being/ wells up in my heart.
He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.
Haughtiness lives under the same roof with solitude.
Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness.
The inside must be made entirely calm and quiet and there should reign an upward aspiration - a state of awaiting.
There are apartments in the soul which have a glorious outlook; from whose windows you can see across the river of death, and into the shining city beyond; but how often are these neglected for the lower ones, which have earthward-looking windows.