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

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.”

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

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.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

One should always have one’s boots on and be ready to leave.

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.

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

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