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.
(Jonathan Raban (b. 1942), British author, critic. For Love and Money, pt. 5 (1987).)
My second husband was an American. We traveled all over the world and everywhere we went he would say to people, "I am an American. I am an American." They finally shot him in one of those Eastern countries.
(John Paxton (1911-1985), U.S. screenwriter, and Stanley Kramer. Woman at party, On the Beach, talking to the American Capt. Towers (1959).
From the novel by Nevil Shute.)
What is there in Rome for me to see that others have not seen before me? What is there for me to touch that others have not touched? What is there for me to feel, to learn, to hear, to know, that shall thrill me before it pass to others? What can I discover?Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. One charm of travel dies here.
(Mark Twain [Samuel Langhorne Clemens] (1835-1910), U.S. author. The Innocents Abroad, ch. 26 (1869).)
No doubt, to a man of sense, travel offers advantages. As many languages as he has, as many friends, as many arts and trades, so many times is he a man. A foreign country is a point of comparison, wherefrom to judge his own.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. "Culture," The Conduct of Life (1860).)