Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk.
Part 2, Chapter 5, 1984, (published 1949).
Don't you feel the truth of this excerpt? Ha, well perhaps we're not living in a corrupt and terrible society, but I still know that I feel this way about my home, and my room particularly. I can do anything during the day, but there are some things, I know, that would be too much if I could not eventually escape to my home and burrow my way into familiarity again. The comfort of its existence makes the rest of life bearable. Perhaps home sweet home is too cliched to ever mention, but that's just what it is. And I adore that final line 'the room was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk' . Doesn't it just fill your head with pictures? My room is absolutely a little world, and I love that it can be, so much.