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

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.

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.

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

All traveling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.

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

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

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

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

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

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go on a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences—to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others.

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

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.”