Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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.

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.”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

Travelers, poets, and liars are three words all of one significance.

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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