Until 1914 I loved to travel; I often went to Italy and once

The words of Hermann Hesse, seeker of truth and chronicler of the human spirit, echo with the stillness of reflection: “Until 1914 I loved to travel; I often went to Italy and once spent a few months in India. Since then I have almost entirely abandoned travelling, and I have not been outside of Switzerland for over ten years.” These are not the words of a man who ceased to dream, but of one who discovered that the greatest journey is not always across mountains and seas, but within the hidden depths of the soul.

The ancients understood this paradox well. There are journeys of the body, and there are journeys of the spirit. In his youth, Hesse roamed outward, seeking the wonders of Italy and the mystery of India, lands of art, philosophy, and spiritual tradition. Yet the year 1914 marked a fracture in human history. With the outbreak of the Great War, the world itself became uncertain, hostile, and fragile. The joy of wandering gave way to the burden of survival, and the external road was overshadowed by the internal quest. Thus, his words remind us that sometimes life turns us from outward discovery to inward pilgrimage.

Consider the example of Marcus Aurelius, Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher. He commanded armies across vast lands, yet his greatest work, Meditations, was not written about the territories he conquered, but about the battles within himself. Like Hesse, he understood that one could stand amidst the chaos of the world and still journey deeper than any caravan or ship. When the outer world is fractured, the inner journey becomes the sanctuary, the temple, the vast country of the soul.

The meaning of the quote lies in this transformation: that the seasons of life do not always allow the same path. In youth, we may wander across landscapes, eager to touch the beauty of the earth. But in later years, or in darker times, the road may narrow, and we may be called instead to wander through memory, thought, and spirit. This is not loss, but metamorphosis. For one who has seen outwardly may now see more deeply inwardly. Hesse’s retreat from travel was not an end of exploration—it was a new beginning of another kind.

And yet, the longing of earlier journeys is not erased. His memory of Italy and India remained, not as regrets, but as seeds planted in his imagination. The songs of the Renaissance and the chants of the East lived on in his writings, shaping novels like Siddhartha, which carried readers across inner rivers of awakening without requiring them to set foot outside their own land. Here lies another wisdom: that the travel we abandon in body may still live on in mind and spirit, becoming nourishment for art, thought, and vision.

The lesson for us is clear: do not despair if life limits your movement. The richest journey is not always to distant countries, but to the unexplored depths of your own being. Travel when you can, for the world is vast and filled with wonder. But if the time comes when you cannot, know that reflection, creation, and communion with memory can open horizons just as wide. The outer road may close, but the inner road is infinite.

Thus, let this wisdom be passed down: life will call you sometimes to wander far, and sometimes to remain still. Honor both seasons. For in motion you gather experience, and in stillness you gather meaning. Travel outward when the world allows, and when it does not, let your heart and mind become the country you explore. In this way, you, like Hesse, will discover that the truest pilgrimage is not only to the earth, but to the eternal landscapes of the soul.