Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation >>
Married life requires shared mystery even when all the facts are known >>
He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home >>
Home, the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than a >>
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- or Dome of Worm -- or P >>
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day senses -- those are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.