Home is, I suppose just a child's idea. A house at night, and a

“Home is, I suppose, just a child’s idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.” Thus spoke V. S. Naipaul, the wanderer and chronicler of exile, whose words echo like a soft lament for the ancient human yearning — the longing for home. In this sentence, Naipaul captures the fragility and innocence of what it means to belong. To him, home is not a place of walls and possessions, but a memory, a dream from childhood — a vision of warmth in the darkness, of a lamp glowing in the night, promising shelter from the world’s vast uncertainty. It is the most universal of human desires, and yet, for many, the most elusive.

The origin of this quote can be found in Naipaul’s lifelong exploration of displacement and identity. Born in Trinidad of Indian descent, educated in England, and traveling endlessly across continents, Naipaul was a man who knew both the ache of exile and the fleeting comfort of return. His writing often circled this theme: the quest for belonging in a world where roots have been severed. For Naipaul, home was not something given, but something imagined — a mirage seen through the eyes of a child, who once believed that safety and love could be contained within the quiet glow of a single house. His words remind us that the longing for home is as much spiritual as it is physical.

To say that home is a child’s idea is to acknowledge that it belongs to the realm of innocence — to a time before loss, before betrayal, before the vastness of the world makes us restless. A child’s sense of home is pure: it is love unbroken, safety unquestioned. But as we grow older, we learn that the world is not so kind. The lamp flickers, the house changes, the people within it drift away. And yet, even as adults, we carry that early image within us — the memory of a lamp in the dark, a small circle of light amid the wilderness of life. Every longing we feel, every journey we take, is an attempt to return to that light.

Consider the story of Odysseus, the hero of Homer’s Odyssey, who wandered for twenty years after the Trojan War, crossing seas, facing monsters, and enduring the wrath of gods — all for one thing: to return home. Yet when he finally arrived, weary and aged, he found his house changed, his people altered, his youth gone. Still, when he saw the light in his old hall, he wept — for though the years had devoured much, the dream of home remained. Like Naipaul’s reflection, Odysseus’s journey shows that home is not merely a place, but a feeling carried in the soul, an eternal symbol of safety and belonging that time cannot fully erase.

Naipaul’s words also carry a subtle melancholy — the understanding that true safety may exist only in memory. For those who have left their homelands, or whose lives have been marked by exile, the home of childhood becomes a ghost. The traveler may find shelter in many places, yet never the peace he remembers. Even those who never leave their birthplace may find that the world changes around them — the house ages, the people pass away, and the lamp goes out. Thus, the idea of home becomes something sacred and intangible, a place of the heart that no geography can contain.

And yet, there is hope hidden in this sorrow. For though the house may fade, the idea of home endures — the light remains within us. It is what draws us toward kindness, toward love, toward the creation of sanctuary wherever we go. To build a home, in the truest sense, is not to own property, but to cultivate warmth — to offer refuge to others, to keep the lamp burning for those who wander. In this way, we turn nostalgia into creation, transforming longing into action.

So, my listener, remember this wisdom: the home you seek is both behind you and within you. The child’s lamp still glows in the depths of your heart — the symbol of safety, belonging, and love. Carry it into the world. Let your presence be a shelter to others, your compassion their light in the night. Do not wait for the perfect house or the unchanging place; these are illusions. Instead, build your home each day — in friendship, in gratitude, in forgiveness. For as V. S. Naipaul teaches us, the truest home is not made of stone or wood, but of spirit — a lamp that burns against the darkness, and a heart that knows, even in exile, what it means to belong.