There are places one comes home to that one has never been to.

The first thing that a new migrant sends to his family back home isn’t money; it’s a story.

Let us leave this Europe which never stops talking of Man yet massacres him at every one of its street corners, at every corner of the world.

Better free in a strange land than a slave at home.

Life’s no resting, but a moving.

Home is wherever I go.

Those who go overseas find a change of climate, not a change of soul.

When the root lives on, the new leaves come back.

To live exiled from a place you have known intimately is to experience sensory deprivation. A wide-awake coma.

Do not fear the clatter of wheels, the bumps and slops in corridors. It is only turbulence.

It was lonesome, the leaving.

Civilization, as we know it, is a movement and not a condition, a voyage and not a harbor.

Usually speaking, the worst-bred person in company is a young traveler just returned from abroad.