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.

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

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

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.”

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

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.”

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

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

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.

In the Middle Ages people were tourists because of their religion, whereas now they are tourists because tourism is their religion.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.