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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.”

Thanks to the interstate highway system, it is now possible to travel from coast to coast without seeing anything.

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

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.

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