Without comprehension, the immigrant would forever remain shut - a stranger in America. Until America can release the heart as well as train the hand of the immigrant, he would forever remain driven back upon himself, corroded by the very richness of the unused gifts within his soul.

The power that makes grass grow, fruit ripen, and guides the bird in flight is in us all.

The only compensation for the artist is the chance to feed hungry hearts.

Like all people who have nothing, I lived on dreams.

Woe is me! Bitter is me! For what is my life? Why didn't the ship go under and drown me before I came to America?

Without comprehension, the immigrant would forever remain shut - a stranger in America. Until America can release the heart as well as train the hand of the immigrant, he would forever remain driven back upon himself, corroded by the very richness of the unused gifts within his soul.

As one of the dumb, voiceless ones I speak. One of the millions of immigrants beating, beating out their hearts at your gates for a breath of understanding.