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

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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.

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

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

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

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.”

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

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.

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

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.