The young leading the young is like the blind leading the blind.

No one’s serious at seventeen.

The boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 

The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

Childhood has no forebodings—but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last miserable.

Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body, to try the manners of different nations, to hear the chimes at midnight.

A dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age in a worn-out state.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

The young man must store up, the old man must use.

No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.