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.”

In the Middle Ages people were tourists because of their religion, whereas now they are tourists because tourism is their religion.

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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

If I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life in driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.