I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history.

A place . . . a time . . . where a man can live his life full measure.

America lives in the heart of every man everywhere who wishes to find a region where he will be free to work out his destiny as he chooses.

it ain't where you're from, its where you're going to

The world makes way for the man who knows where he is going

One must leave home if he is to find home

There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be...

I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him.

I belong wherever I want to be.

He was under the impression that he belonged wherever there was something interesting to see.

In whatsoever countrey men are bred
(I know not by what sweetnesse of it led),
They nourish in their minds a glad desire,
Unto their native homes for to retire,

Wherever you have friends that’s your country, and wherever you receive love, that’s your home.

Every man, wherever he goes, is encompassed by a cloud of comforting convictions, which move with him like flies on a summer day.

Where Thou art - that - is Home.