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

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.