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.

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

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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

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

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 is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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.

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.

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

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.”