Home is wherever I go.

I have been a stranger here in my own land all my life.

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

Where shall I, of wandering weary, find my resting place at last?

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

Life’s no resting, but a moving.

Uprootedness is by far the most dangerous malady to which human societies are exposed, for it is a self-propagating one.

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

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

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

It was lonesome, the leaving.

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

Spring now comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and the early mornings are strangely silent where once they were filled with the beauty of birdsong.