Dream Home Quotes

“A strange structure untangled itself out of the background like a hallucination, not part of the natural landscape. It was a funny-shaped, almost spherical, green podlike thing woven from living branches of trees and vines. A trellis of vines hung down over the opening that served as a door.
Wendy was so delighted tears sprang to her eyes.
It was her Imaginary House!
They all had them. Michael wanted his to be like a ship with views of the sea. John had wanted to live like a nomad on the steppes. And Wendy... Wendy had wanted something that was part of the natural world itself.
She tentatively stepped forward, almost swooning at the heavy scent of the door flowers. Languorously lighting on them were a few scissorflies, silver and almost perfectly translucent in the glittery sunlight. Their sharp wings made little snickety noises as they fluttered off.
Her shadow made a few half-hearted attempts to drag back, pointing to the jungle. But Wendy ignored her, stepping into the hut.
She was immediately knocked over by a mad, barking thing that leapt at her from the darkness of the shelter.
"Luna!" Wendy cried in joy.
The wolf pup, which she had rescued in one of her earliest stories, stood triumphantly on her chest, drooling very visceral, very stinky dog spit onto her face.
"Oh, Luna! You're real!" Wendy hugged the gray-and-white pup as tightly as she could, and it didn't let out a single protest yelp.
Although...
"You're a bit bigger than I imagined," Wendy said thoughtfully, sitting up. "I thought you were a puppy."
Indeed, the wolf was approaching formidable size, although she was obviously not yet quite full-grown and still had large puppy paws. She was at least four stone and her coat was thick and fluffy. Yet she pranced back and forth like a child, not circling with the sly lope Wendy imagined adult wolves used.
You're not a stupid little lapdog, are you?" Wendy whispered, nuzzling her face into the wolf's fur. Luna chuffed happily and gave her a big wet sloppy lick across the cheek. "Let's see what's inside the house!"
As the cool interior embraced her, she felt a strange shudder of relief and... welcome was the only way she could describe it. She was home.
The interior was small and cozy; plaited sweet-smelling rush mats softened the floor. The rounded walls made shelves difficult, so macramé ropes hung from the ceiling, cradling halved logs or flat stones that displayed pretty pebbles, several beautiful eggs, and what looked like a teacup made from a coconut. A lantern assembled from translucent pearly shells sat atop a real cherry writing desk, intricately carved and entirely out of place with the rest of the interior.
Wendy picked up one of the pretty pebbles in wonder, turning it this way and that before putting it into her pocket.
"This is... me..." she breathed. She had never been there before, but it felt so secure and so right that it couldn't have been anything but her home. Her real home. Here there was no slight tension on her back as she waited for footsteps to intrude, for reality to wake her from her dreams; there was nothing here to remind her of previous days, sad or happy ones. There were no windows looking out at the gray world of London. There was just peace, and the scent of the mats, and the quiet droning of insects and waves outside.
"Never Land is a... mishmash of us. Of me," she said slowly. "It's what we imagine and dream of- including the dreams we can't quite remember.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“I would be happy just about anywhere, as long as I can be surrounded by tall trees and maybe a lake or river with majestic mountains in the background. I always admired how they lived during the frontier times. You could find yourself a nice spot and build your dream home without worrying about paying rent or a mortgage. Simpler times. I think what’s happening now could possibly lead to something like that happening, again. We’re already experiencing a breakdown in government, as far as New York City goes. If more cities become infected elsewhere, who knows how things will turn out?”
― Jason Medina, The Manhattanville Incident: An Undead Novel

“A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if she'd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. She'd have a guest room and- who knows- maybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens who'd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning along.
A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking.
A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.”
― Anna Gavalda, Hunting and Gathering

“Other people’s pockets are our money’s dream home.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana, On Friendship: A Satirical Essay

“Inside was a wonder.
The ceiling was entirely obscured by bunches of herbs, flowers, and sweet rushes hanging to dry. Shelves lined every spare inch of wall, filled with bottles of potions, salves, and powders of all colors. A friendly fire blazed out of a flagstone hearth. Farthest away from this, in the back where it was cooler, was a dairy pantry filled with cheese, milk, and butter.
All goat, probably.
Growing through a window was a healthy spray of roses that looked like a neighbor poking her head in for news and a good gossip.”
― Liz Braswell, What Once Was Mine

“The summer sun glowed on the white clapboards, which were in desperate need of a coat of paint. The air was sweet with the scents of salt water and a jumble of untended rosebushes in riotous bloom along one side of the house. The garden was vivid with greenery, though it seemed all the plants had grown into a tangled mass. Rich, well-dug black soil showed here and there. I looked over my shoulder and saw an aging apple orchard at the end of an empty field and beyond it an enticing glimpse of sapphire water.
"Is that Hood Canal?"
Will followed my gaze. "Yes!" He jumped down from the porch and started back to the garden gate. "Let's go see it."
My sandals weren't the best shoes for tramping through the long grass of the field or for navigating the root-choked earth beneath the apple trees. I had to slip-slide my way down the cut in the bank to the gravelly beach beside the canal. There was no wind, and the smooth water glistened like satin.”
― Louisa Morgan, The Witch's Kind