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

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

The young always have the same problem—how to rebel and conform at the same time. They have now solved this by defying their elders and copying one another.

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

Even members of the nobility, let alone persons of no consequence, would do well not to have children. 

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.

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

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.

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.

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