Quotes About Adolescence

During his term at Nickel, the Mexican boy sidestepped the squabbles that embroiled the rest of them, the uncounted disputes over psychological turf and endless encroachments. His constant dorm reassignments notwithstanding, Jaimie kept a quiet profile and conducted himself in accordance with the Nickel handbook's rules of conduct—a miracle, since no one had ever seen the handbook despite its constant invocations by the staff. Like justice, it existed in theory.

The general impression is that fifteen year-old Dolly remains morbidly uninterested in sexual matters, or to be exact, represses her curiosity in order to save her ignorance and self-dignity.

Virginia was not quite fourteen when Harry Edgar possessed her. He gave her lessons in algebra. Je m'imagine cela. They spent their honeymoon at Petersburg, Fla. "Monsieur Poe-poe," as that boy in one of Monsieur Humbert Humbert's classes in Paris called the poet-poet.

Oh, said Haze, poor me should know, I went through that when I was a kid: boys twisting one's hair, hurting one's breasts, flipping one's skirt.

The two lads were told to wash their hands. The recent thrill of adventure had been superseded by another sort of excitement. They locked themselves up. The tap ran unheeded. Both were in a manly state and moaning like doves.

I felt that way not because I never once discovered any palpable hard young throat to crush among the masculine mutes that flickered somewhere in the background; but because it was to me overwhelmingly obvious (a favorite expression with my aunt Sybil) that all varieties of high school boys - from the perspiring nincompoop whom holding hands thrills, to the self-sufficient rapist with pustules and a souped-up car - equally bored my sophisticated young mistress.

behind the awful juvenile clichés, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate

I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days (I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind) when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself.

Did I ever mention that her bare arm bore the 8 of vaccination? That I loved her hopelessly? That she was only fourteen?

All boys are pathetic.

Her classmates were gossiping their way into adolescence, literally and figuratively.

The firs day of high school is bullshit anyways. It's supposed to be about new beginnings, but really all it does is wreck your life. And set you up for failure. And make you realize everything is completely and totally fucked.

So as a seventh grader, no, you weren't friends with people you didn't like. But sometimes you also weren't friends with people you did like, which was complicated, and which didn't make any sense if you tried to explain it. Sometimes things just changed. That's where the sadness came in.

So, as a seventh grader,no, you weren't friends with people you didnt like. But sometimesyou also werent friends with people you did like, which was complicated, and which didnt make any sence if you tried to explain it. Sometimes things just changed. Thats where the sadness came in.

I often get a particular wrinkled-nose look from Mom: mild revulsion mixed with fondness, as if she can't quite believe she made me, this large, sometimes stinky, always untidy boy who double dips and chugs orange juice out of the carton even though she begs me not to.

Heredity is what sets the parents of a teenager wondering about each other.

I know hate is a strong word and everything, but its okay: we're teenagers.

I'd never really babysat. I feel like I'm Blair, or 'Gossip Girl.' A teenager, basically - and now suddenly I'm a mom?

I know hate is a strong word and everything, but its okay: we're teenagers.

There's a boy who they call Pony! He's always acting gross and horny! He thinks he's got a lot down there, but he sure wears tiny underwear!

How he'd asked for a telescope for his fourteenth birthday and received a clock radio instead; how he'd saved his allowance and bought himself one. How, sometimes, at dinner, Nath never said a word about his day, because their parents never asked.

Teens could pay attention to nothing but the sexuality billowing off each other like steam.

James slid into his seat and the girl next to him asked, "What's wrong with your eyes?" It wasn't until he heard the horror in the teacher's voice—"Shirley Byron!"—that he realized he was supposed to be embarrassed; the next time it happened, he had learned his lesson and turned red right away.

Izzy had the heart of a radical, but she had the experience of a fourteen-year-old living in the suburban Midwest. Which is to say: she cast about for ideas for exacting revenge -- egged windows, flaming bags of dog shit -- and chose the best thing in her limited repertoire.