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

I am not Athenian or Greek but a citizen of the world.

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

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

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.

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

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

Emigration is easy, but immigration is something else. To flee, yes; but to be accepted?

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

Life’s no resting, but a moving.

It was lonesome, the leaving.

Exile lacks the grandeur, the majesty, of expatriation.

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