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

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.”

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.”

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.

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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.

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.

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

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.

A traveler’s chief aim should be to make men wiser and better, and to improve their minds by the bad—as well as good—example of what they deliver concerning foreign places.

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

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

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