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.

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

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

A sick child is always the mother’s property; her own feelings generally make it so.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

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.

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

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.

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

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

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

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