Writers and travelers are mesmerized alike by knowing of their destinations.

Happiness, I have grasped, is a destination, like strawberry Fields. Once you find the way in, there you are, and you’ll never feel low again.

To get more clarity, take a step in the direction of the destination.

What keeps you going isn’t some fine destination but just the road you’re on, and the fact that you know how to drive.

Fascism may be good at making the trains run on time, but you wouldn’t like some of the destinations.

Travel is at its most rewarding when it ceases to be about your reaching a destination and becomes indistinguishable from living your life.

We make a lot of detours, but we’re always heading for the same destination.

My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.

I’m somebody who considers happiness a journey, not a destination.

Happiness is not a destination. It is a method of life.