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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Exile lacks the grandeur, the majesty, of expatriation.

Nature contains no one constant form.

As man disappears from sight, the land remains.

It was lonesome, the leaving.

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