Exile lacks the grandeur, the majesty, of expatriation.

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

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

Whole nations have melted away like balls of snow before the sun.

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

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.

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

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

As man disappears from sight, the land remains.

Home is wherever I go.

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

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.