I'm one who knows. I'm a stranger in a strange land.

Maybe it’s all right,” she said. “But for the first time in my life I’m beginning to feel like an outsider in my own land.

he was a stranger in a strange land

To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life.

I can feel it in my blood that I belong to this strange and stony rock I stand upon yet I cannot put a name upon it I cannot place the time nor see the land as it once was nor tell which house was mine no I cannot put a name upon it which was where and when yet here I am a perfect stranger home again.

Sir, I am not in your land, but in my own.

I told you when I came I was a stranger.

In my own country for nearly a century I have been nothing but a nigger.

I left my home, and I was left
A stranger in his land, bereft
Of even hope; there was not one
Familiar face to look upon.—
Their speech was strange.

I am a citizen of the world, known to all and to all a stranger.

All my life, I have lived with the feeling that I have been kept from my true place. If the expression "metaphysical exile" had no meaning, my existence alone would afford it one.

I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.

I wanted to kind of make sure that people know that I'm here to stay, because this is home, and I am born here — I'm not a foreigner in that sense.

We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes.