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

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

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.

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

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

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.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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

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