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.

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.

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.”

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman.

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.

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