"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."
"It is no loss to mankind when one writer decides to call it a day. When a tree falls in the forest, who cares but the monkeys?"
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Source: Richard Ford (2012). “The Bascombe Novels: The Sportswriter, Independence Day, The Lay of the Land”, p.39, A&C Black
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