One travels to run away from routine, that dreadful routine that kills all imagination and all our capacity for enthusiasm.

You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown, that reveals you with yourself.

I am sure that instinctively we wish to be everything, to possess it-why cut the rose or marry the man, otherwise?

I had to live in the desert before I could understand the full value of grass in a green ditch.

One travels to escape from it all, but that is the great illusion: It cannot be done, since one travels with one's mind.

I can see now that a concept or even a feeling makes no sense unless out of our substance we spin around it a web of references, of relationships, of values.

Certain travelers give the impression that they keep moving because only then do they feel fully alive.