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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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.

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

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

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

No one’s serious at seventeen.

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

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 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.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.