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.

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

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

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.