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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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

The thing that impresses me most about America is the way parents obey their children.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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.

No one’s serious at seventeen.

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.

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

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.

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

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

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.