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

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

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.

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

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

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

It was lonesome, the leaving.

I have loved justice and hated iniquity: therefore I die in exile.

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

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.

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

Home is wherever I go.