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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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

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.

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