One’s destination is never a place,
but a new way of seeing things.
Traveling is a brutality.
It forces you to trust strangers
and to lose sight of
all that familiar comfort of home and friends.
You are constantly off balance.
Nothing is yours except the essential things
– air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky –
all things tending towards the eternal
or what we imagine of it.
For my part,
I travel not to go anywhere,
but to go.
I travel for travel’s sake.
The great affair is to move.
All travel has its advantages.
If the passenger visits better countries,
he may learn to improve his own.
And if fortune carries him to worse,
he may learn to enjoy it.
No one realizes
how beautiful it is to travel
until he comes home
and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.
Your true traveler finds boredom
rather agreeable than painful.
It is the symbol of his liberty-his excessive freedom.
He accepts his boredom,
when it comes,
not merely philosophically,
but almost with pleasure.
People travel to faraway places
to watch, in fascination,
the kind of people they ignore at home.
He who does not travel
does not know the value of men.
All the pathos and irony of
leaving one’s youth behind is
thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel:
one knows that the first joy can never be recovered,
and the wise traveler learns not to repeat successes
but tries new places all the time.
The use of traveling is
to regulate imagination by reality,
instead of thinking
how things may be,
to see them as they are.
There are no foreign lands.
It is the traveler only who is foreign.
The world is a book
and those who do not travel
read only one page.
Travel is fatal to prejudice,
bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.