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

More and more I like to take a train. I understand why the French prefer it to automobiling—it is so much more sociable, and of course these days so much more of an adventure, and the irregularity of its regularity is fascinating.

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.”

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

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

See one promontory (said Socrates of old), one mountain, one sea, one river, and see all.

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.