There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

After midnight the moon set and I was alone with the stars. I have often said that the lure of flying is the lure of beauty, and I need no other flight to convince me that the reason flyers fly, whether they know it or not, is the aesthetic appeal of flying.

See one promontory (said Socrates of old), one mountain, one sea, one river, and see all.

When a traveler returneth home, let him not leave the countries where he hath traveled altogether behind him.

Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one’s own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live.

It is delightful to read on the spot the impressions and opinions of tourists who visited a hundred years ago, in the vehicles and with the aesthetic prejudices of the period, the places which you are visiting now. The voyage ceases to be a mere tour through space; you travel through time and thought as well.

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

I am leaving the town to the invaders: increasingly numerous, mediocre, dirty, badly behaved, shameless tourists.

Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will—whatever we may think.

The traveler was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him. He goes “sightseeing.”

Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, “I would stay here and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.”

Thanks to the interstate highway system, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.