Something clicked when I started reading Julia Kristeva's Strangers to Ourselves. Although Kristeva's work naturally focuses more on the problems of immigration in France, much of this book will help me provide a ground work for my own discussion.
One passage in particular haunts me. Perhaps because it is more applicable to my own work about what it means to be home, than to the work for my dissertation; whatever the reason, I can't get it out of my head. Referring to the foreigner, Kristeva says,
"Melancholy lover of a vanished space, he cannot, in fact, get over his having abandonded a period of time."I still can't quite articulate how this sentence reverberates in my soul. Maybe you can wrestle with it in the comments.
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