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.

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.

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

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

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

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.”

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.

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

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

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.

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

There is nothing worse for mortals than a wandering life.

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