The great advantage of a hotel is that it is a refuge from home

“The great advantage of a hotel is that it is a refuge from home life.” Thus spoke George Bernard Shaw, the sharp-tongued sage of modern letters, whose wit pierced through the manners of his age to reveal deeper truths about the human condition. Though spoken with humor, this saying carries within it a quiet wisdom — for in jest, Shaw often hid philosophy. In these words, he reminds us that even the comfort of home, with all its love and familiarity, can become a burden when it binds the soul too tightly. The hotel, in contrast, represents freedom — the brief, liberating escape from routine, expectation, and the endless rhythm of domestic responsibility.

To seek refuge from home is not to despise it, but to understand its weight. For home, though it nourishes, also demands; though it shelters, it confines. The hearth that gives warmth can also burn. In a world where duty, relationship, and habit weave around us like invisible cords, even the strongest heart sometimes longs to step beyond — to become, if only for a moment, no one’s spouse, no one’s parent, no one’s servant or master, but simply oneself. The hotel, to Shaw, is a sanctuary of anonymity — a place where one’s identity is unburdened, where the self can rest from the performance of daily life.

In this, Shaw reveals something profoundly human: our need to balance belonging and independence. The soul cannot thrive in endless attachment, just as it cannot survive in endless solitude. There is wisdom in retreat — in stepping away to breathe and rediscover who we are beneath the layers of duty and familiarity. The hotel symbolizes that sacred pause: a place where the mind may wander and the spirit may stretch, where one might rediscover the quiet thrill of being alone. In its temporary walls, a person can think freely, observe freshly, and return renewed.

History, too, gives us examples of this need for refuge. The philosopher Michel de Montaigne, though a devoted husband and statesman, built for himself a tower separate from his home — a place where he could write, read, and think in solitude. Upon the beams of his study, he inscribed words of wisdom and reflection, reminders that his spirit belonged to no one but itself. Montaigne’s tower was his hotel, his refuge from the noise of the world and the intimacy of family. It was there that he produced his Essays, works that shaped the birth of modern thought. His retreat was not an escape from love, but a return to the wellspring of the self.

Likewise, Shaw himself lived much of his life as a man both within and apart. Though he married, he had no children and often found companionship in his work more than in the domestic sphere. To him, life at home, with its endless repetitions and small demands, could smother the creative fire. The hotel, in its transient simplicity, offered the clarity of impermanence. It required nothing of him but presence. There, surrounded by strangers and silence, he could be free — not from love, but from its obligations; not from people, but from the weight of their familiarity.

And yet, Shaw’s words are not an anthem for abandonment. They remind us instead of the necessity of retreat in a world of constant attachment. In every age, the wise have known that to serve others well, one must also preserve the self. The monk withdraws to his cell, the artist to her studio, the traveler to his inn — each seeking the stillness where inspiration is born. To stay always within the same walls, performing the same roles, is to let the spirit dull. But to step away, even briefly, is to polish the mirror of the soul until it gleams again with clarity and purpose.

So, my children, learn this lesson from Shaw’s wit: do not be afraid to seek refuge. Let the world’s expectations rest upon the other side of a closed door, and find within the quiet of solitude the strength to return to them with grace. Go, if only for a while, to your own “hotel” — that place, real or imagined, where you can set down your burdens and remember your name. For rest is not selfishness; it is the renewal of the heart. The one who never leaves home forgets its value; the one who leaves and returns, refreshed, restores it with new light.

And thus, as George Bernard Shaw reminds us with his characteristic irony, the hotel — that simple inn for travelers — becomes a symbol of spiritual wisdom. It teaches us that to step away is sometimes the only way to return whole. So when life grows heavy, when routine becomes a cage, take refuge not in escape but in renewal. Step out of the house of obligation into the inn of self-discovery, if only for a night. For the soul, like a traveler, must sometimes rest in strange places to remember where it truly belongs.