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.

Poverty was an ornament on a learned man like a red ribbon on a white horse.

Though my father was poor and had nothing, the Torah, the poetry of prophets, was his daily bread.

Those who were high go down low, and those who've been low go up higher.

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?

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.

In America, money takes the place of God.