Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

Traveling is like gambling: it is ever connected with winning and losing, and generally where least expected we receive more or less than we hoped for.

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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.”

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.