Inter-railers are the ambulatory equivalent of Macdonald's, walking testimony to the erosion of French culture.
It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.
It would be nice to travel if you knew where you were going and where you would live at the end or do we ever know, do we ever live where we live, we're always in other places, lost, like sheep.
Journeys end in lovers meeting.
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.
Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.
Life on board a pleasure steamer violates every moral and physical condition of healthy life except fresh air. It is a guzzling, lounging, gambling, dog's life. The only alternative to excitement is irritability.
Life, as the most ancient of all metaphors insists, is a journey; and the travel book, in its deceptive simulation of the journey's fits and starts, rehearses life's own fragmentation. More even than the novel, it embraces the contingency of things.
Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I have seen.
Man is flying too fast for a world that is round. Soon he will catch up with himself in a great rear end collision.
Modern tourist guides have helped raised tourist expectations. And they have provided the natives — from Kaiser Wilhelm down to the villagers of Chichacestenango — with a detailed and itemized list of what is expected of them and when. These are the up-to-date scripts for actors on the tourists stage.
Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.
My favorite thing is to go where I have never gone.
No man should travel until he has learned the language of the country he visits. Otherwise he voluntarily makes himself a great baby-so helpless and so ridiculous.
Not so many years ago there was no simpler or more intelligible notion than that of going on a journey. Travel –movement through space –provided the universal metaphor for change. One of the subtle confusions –perhaps one of the secret terrors –of modern life is that we have lost this refuge. No longer do we move through space as we once did.
O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, you express me better than I can express myself.
Of journeying the benefits are many: the freshness it bringeth to the heart, the seeing and hearing of marvelous things, the delight of beholding new cities, the meeting of unknown friends, and the learning of high manners.
Old men and far travelers may lie with authority.
One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to come up to you and show you a nice brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken, and this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the Jack of Spades jump out of the deck and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not bet this man, for as sure as you are standing there, you are going to end up with an earful of cider.
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