28 Quotes Tagged: Travel

I think more of skates than of the horse or locomotive as annihilators of distance, for while I am getting along with the speed of the horse, I have at the same time the satisfaction of the horse and his rider, and far more adventure and variety than if I were riding.

Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.

If there is nothing new on the earth, still the traveller always has a resource in the skies. They are constantly turning a new page to view.

Other roads do some violence to Nature, and bring the traveller to stare at her, but the river steals into the scenery it traverses without intrusion, silently creating and adoring it, and is as free to come and go as the zephyr.

Meanwhile it's got stormy, the tattered fog even thicker, chasing across my path. Three people are sitting in a glassy tourist cafe between clouds and clouds, protected by glass from all sides. Since I don't see any waiters, it crosses my mind that corpses have been sitting there for weeks, statuesque. All this time the cafe has been unattended, for sure. Just how long have they been sitting here, petrified like this?

To go to sea! Why, it is to have the experience of Noah, —to realize the deluge. Every vessel is an ark.

I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot.

I fear that I have not got much to say about Canada, not having seen much; what I got by going to Canada was a cold.

Is not each withered leaf that I see in my walks something which I have traveled to find? —traveled, who can tell how far? What a fool he must be who thinks that his El Dorado is anywhere but where he lives!

In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own.

We do not ride upon the railroad; it rides upon us.

The landscape lies far and fair within, and the deepest thinker is the farthest traveled.

Perhaps it is true that at base we readers are dissatisfied people, yearning to be elsewhere, to live vicariously through words in a way we cannot live directly through life. Perhaps we are the world's great nomads, if only in our minds...I am the sort of person who prefers to stay at home, surrounded by family, friends, familiarity, books...It turns out that when my younger self thought of taking wing, she wanted only to let her spirit soar. Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.

When we have returned from the seaside, we sometimes ask ourselves why we did not spend more time gazing at the sea; but very soon the traveller does not look at the sea more than at the heavens.

When the spring stirs my blood/With the instinct to travel, /I can get enough gravel/On the Old Marlborough Road.