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.

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.

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 soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go on a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences—to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others.

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.

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

I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.

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.”

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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.