Curious thing, rooms. Tell you quite a lot about the people who live in them.

You don’t make a great museum by putting all the art in the world into a single room. That’s a warehouse.

The house was large and deeply lived-in, all the shelves and surfaces stacked with books and boxes, framed pictures, old greeting cards set up like tent cities...Every single surface told a story. A long one. With digressions.

History was like an old house at night. With all the lamps lit. And ancestor whispering inside. To understand history, we have to go inside and listen to what they're saying. And look at the books and the pictures on the wall. And smell the smells.

How can secret rooms, rooms that have disappeared, become abodes for an unforgettable past?

شرح لهما أن التاريخ مثل بيتٍ قديم في الليل،حيث المصابيح مضاءة بأكملها، والأجداد يهمسون في الداخل.
ومن أجل فهم التاريخ، علينا أن ندخل ونصغي إلى ما يقولونه. وأن ننظر في الكتب والصور التي على الجدران. وأن نشم الروائح
لكننا لا نستطيع الدخول، لأننا قد حُجزنا في الخارج، وإذا ما نظرنا من خلال النوافذ، فإن كل ما نراه هو الظلال. وعندما نحاول أن نصغي، فإن كل ما نسمعه هو الهمس. ونحن لا نستطيع فهم الهمس، لأن عقولنا اجتيحت بحرب، حربٍ ربحناها وخسرناها، حرب هي الأسوأ على الإطلاق بين كل الحروب، حرب استولت على أحلامنا، وحلمت بها من جديد، حرب جعلتنا نعبد غزاتنا ونكره أنفسنا.

Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering - because you can't take it in all at once.

I scarcely know how to describe that room. It became, in a way, every room I had ever been in and every room I find myself in hereafter will remind me of Giovanni’s room.

A–Z, and its dusty show windows were crammed with a weird clutter of old and exotic-looking objects — huge bronze

She had always been fond of history, and here [in Rome] was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine.

I didn't mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much: a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were, they had all my memories.

To give you an idea of my state of mind I can not do better than compare it to one of those rooms we see nowadays in which are collected and mingled the furniture of all times and countries. Our age has no impress of its own. We have impressed the seal of our time neither on our houses nor our gardens, nor on anything that is ours. On the street may be seen men who have their beards trimmed as in the time of Henry III, others who are clean-shaven, others who have their hair arranged as in the time of Raphael, others as in the time of Christ. So the homes of the rich are cabinets of curiosities: the antique, the gothic, the style of the Renaissance, that of Louis XIII, all pell-mell. In short, we have every century except our own — a thing which has never been seen at any other epoch: eclecticism is our taste; we take everything we find, this for beauty, that for utility, another for antiquity, still another for its ugliness even, so that we live surrounded by debris, as if the end of the world were at hand.

The accumulation of consecutive rooms in his memory now resembled those displays of grouped elbow chairs on show, and beds, and lamps, and inglebooks which, ignoring all space-time distinctions, commingle in the soft light of a furniture store beyond which it snows, and the dusk deepens, and nobody really loves anybody.

Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they’d continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later.