L’esiliato (The Exiled), 1928 by Arturo Nathan (1891-1944)
The thing is, I grew up as a foreigner. Look, my father was a Jew who tried to pass for a Russian. My mother was half-Russian, because a Cossack raped her mother, and she tried to pass for a Jew. So, I was Chilean and not Chilean, because I was the son of immigrants. I was trying to pass for a Chilean, but never completely. I was never anything. Therefore, the only exile I know is the exile from myself. Because I was never myself. The nostalgia I would have to get back to myself, what am I? But not what am I as nationality. What am I as a spirit without limits. I have limits. So, each day I try more and more to go toward the anonymous which is precisely the impersonal. To try to be an impersonal person. I don’t think in terms of cities now. I think of the planet. I don’t think in terms of nationality. I think of human beings.
From a 1995 interview with Alejandro Jodorowsky by Jason Weiss (who was kind enough to forward a link to me).