Subjects — E
It would be enough for me to have the system of a jury of twelve versus the system of one judge as a basis for preferring the U.S. to the Soviet Union. … I would prefer the country you can leave to the country you cannot.
An exile, saddest of all prisoners, Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, Seas, mountains, and the horizon’s verge for bars.
The ideal place for me is the one in which it is most natural to live as a foreigner.
It is a mistake to expect good work from expatriates; for it is not what they do that matters, but what they are not doing.
Excluded by my birth and tastes from the social order, I was not aware of its diversity. … Nothing in the world was irrelevant: the stars on a general’s sleeve, the stock-market quotations, the olive harvest, the style of the judiciary, the wheat exchange, flower-beds. … Nothing. This order, fearful and feared, whose details were all interrelated, had a meaning: my exile.
Exile as a mode of genius no longer exists; in place of Joyce we have the fragments of work appearing in Index on Censorship.
I have loved justice and hated iniquity: therefore I die in exile.
You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.
If I were to live my life over again, I would be an American. I would steep myself in America, I would know no other land.
Let those who desire a secure homeland conquer it. Let those who do not conquer it live under the whip and in exile, watched over like wild animals, cast from one country to another, concealing the death of their souls with a beggar’s smile from the scorn of free men.