When the missionaries first came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said, “Let us pray.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them, we had the Bible and they had the land.

There is no foreign land; it is the traveler only that is foreign.

Who sees all beings in his own self, and his own self in all beings, loses all fear.

“Abroad,” that large home of ruined reputations.

All of life is a foreign country.

Strangers are an endangered species.

Africa has her mysteries, and even a wise man cannot understand them. But a wise man respects them.

In settling an island, the first building erected by a Spaniard will be a church, by a Frenchman a fort, by a Dutchman a warehouse, and by an Englishman an alehouse.

A criminal may improve and become a decent member of society. A foreigner cannot improve. Once a foreigner, always a foreigner. There is no way out for him.

At the bottom of enmity between strangers lies indifference.

Such then is the human state, that to wish greatness for one’s country is to wish harm to one’s neighbors.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

By nature, men are nearly alike; by practice, they get to be wide apart.