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.”

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.

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

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.

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.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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.