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

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.

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.”

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.