For a man’s house is his castle, et domus sua cuique est tutissimum refugium [and each man’s home is his safest refuge].

Man wanted a home, a place for warmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of the affections.

Yes, this was his home. Here no harm could come to him. He smiled at the mere idea that any harm could come to him here. He avoided looking at the divan on which he slept. Every human creature needed a home, not a home of the kind understood by crude knock-you-down patriots, not a religion either, a mere insipid foretaste of a heavenly home: no, a real home, in which space, work, friends, recreation, and the scope of a man's ideas came together into an orderly whole, into — so to speak — a personal cosmos. The best definition of a home was a library.

where a man feels at home, outside of where he’s born, is where he’s meant to go.

He lived in a strange, silent house and looked out of it through calm eyes. He was a stranger to all the world, but he was not lonely.

We need a home in the psychological sense as much as we need one in the physical: to compensate for a vulnerability. We need a refuge to shore up our states of mind, because so much of the world is opposed to our allegiances. We need our rooms to align us to desirable versions of ourselves and to keep alive the important, evanescent sides of us.

Sorry the man, to my mind, who has not in his own home a place to be all by himself, to pay his court privately to himself, to hide!

A man is not a man until he has a house of his own.

Spiritually, a man's thoughts must be the building in which he lives, otherwise it's wrong.

A man who lives with his wife is safer and more venerable than a man who lives with a tramp.

A house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely.

I’m a peaceful, mild, and quiet man, and I know how to conceal any insult because I have a wife and children to support and care for.

He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.

If men lived like men indeed, their houses would be temples — temples which we should hardly dare to injure, and in which it would make us holy to be permitted to live; and there must be a strange dissolution of natural affection, a strange unthankfulness for all that homes have given and parents taught, a strange consciousness that we have been unfaithful to our fathers honor, or that our own lives are not such as would make our dwellings sacred to our children, when each man would fain build to himself, and build for the little revolution of his own life only.