Traveling is the ruin of all happiness! There’s no looking at a building here after seeing Italy.

People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence, and they think they have seen something.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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.”

I think that to get under the surface and really appreciate the beauty of any country, one has to go there poor.

A traveler’s chief aim should be to make men wiser and better, and to improve their minds by the bad—as well as good—example of what they deliver concerning foreign places.

According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman.

One should always have one’s boots on and be ready to leave.

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.”

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.

The traveler with nothing on him sings in the robber’s face.

Those who travel heedlessly from place to place, observing only their distance from each other and attending only to their accommodation at the inn at night, set out fools, and will certainly return so.