Since "home" is not a real place, (though it always was once upon a time), feeling at home is, in essence, a personal and culturally specific link to the imaginary. Feelings and memories linked to home are highly charged, if not with meaning, then with sense memories that began in childhood before the mastery of language. A fortuitous and fleeting smell, a spidery touch, a motion, a bitter tastealmost beyond our conscious ability to bid or concoct or recreate-home is thus an evocation that is of this sensory world, ephemeral and potential in the least familiar. Suddenly, when I least expect it, I am enchanted. I hold my breath at the silent transposition of a melody. Thinking about "home" is like being given a
hunting license for anamnesis, or reflection on those things "which enthrall me without my knowing why" (Barthes, 3).