Words are impotent to describe certain emotions.

I am convinced that to live is to travel towards the world's end.

The true traveller is the one urged to move about for physical, aesthetic, intellectual as well as spiritual reasons.

One travels so as to learn once more how to marvel at life in the way a child does. And blessed be the poet, the artist who knows how to keep alive his sense of wonder.

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

You can feel as brave as Columbus starting for the unknown the first time you enter a Chinese lane full of boys laughing at you, or when you risk climbing down in a Tibetan pub for a meal of rotten meat.

Happiness is the intoxication produced by the moment of poise between a satisfactory past and an immediate future, rich with promise.