There ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.

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

The traveler with nothing on him sings in the robber’s face.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.