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

History in its broadest aspect is a record of man’s migrations from one environment to another.

Home is wherever I go.

Life’s no resting, but a moving.

Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but most important, it finds homes for us everywhere.

They exchange their home and sweet thresholds for exile, and seek under another sun another home.

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

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

Can you take your country with you on the soles of your shoes?

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

The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.

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.

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.