I miss everyone. I can remember being young and feeling a thing and identifying it as homesickness, and then thinking well now that’s odd, isn’t it, because I was home, all the time. What on earth are we to make of that?

I suppose everybody must be always just a little homesick.

Philosophy is really homesickness: the urge to be at home everywhere.

His boredom was like a nostalgia for the whole world. He was homesick for everywhere but here.

Homesick we are, and always, for another
And different world.

Ah, Harry, we have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.

My soul comes from better worlds and I have an incurable homesickness of the stars.

I used to think it was mere homesickness, then I started getting it at home.

The true source of our sufferings has been our timidity.

The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time; our sense of that, not a disinterested love of science, and certainly not wisdom, is why we devote such a huge proportion of the ingenuity and income of our societies to finding faster ways of doing things - as if the final aim of mankind was to grow closer not to a perfect humanity, but to a perfect lightning-flash.

We live only a few conscious decades, and we fret ourselves enough for several lifetimes.

"You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school? We've someway always felt alike about things."
"Yes, that's it; we've liked the same things and we've liked them together, without anybody else knowing. And we've had good times, hunting for Christmas trees and going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We've never either of us had any other close friend. And now — -"

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

You know what I'm afraid of? That God is sick of us.