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.

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

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

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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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

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

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

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.”

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

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.

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.

In the Middle Ages people were tourists because of their religion, whereas now they are tourists because tourism is their religion.