Quotes About Youth

Livet är inrättat för de gamla, därför är det en olycka att vara ung. Det är inrättat för de tanklösa och slöa, för dem som ta falskt för äkta eller till och med föredrar det falska, därför är det en sjukdom att tänka och känna, en barnsjukdom som man måste gå igenom innan man blir man...

Hur var det möjligt att han, Martin Birck, som ännu inte hade fyllt sexton år och låg i en liten järnsäng i sina föräldrars hem, kunde tänka annorlunda om de högsta och viktigaste tingen än de gamla och erfarna, och att han kunde ha rätt och de orätt?

Fear of corrupting the mind of the younger generation is the loftiest form of cowardice.

Crowns of flowers on our heads, shooting bows and arrows at the sky. Eating candied violets and falling asleep with our heads pillowed on logs. We were children. Children can laugh all day and still cry themselves to sleep at night.

Great. Lookout. I'm a lookout. Another thing to put on my college applications. What do I do if I see someone?" Val looked back. "I'm not sure, actually.

You're young, but you're ambitious in the way that perhaps only the young can be.

Downstairs, Grandad's warning Barron about something. His voice swells, and I catch the words, "In my day we were feared. Now we're just afraid.

The first boy I fell in love with didn't know I loved him, but he managed to break my heart anyway.

on the lawn one late summer day, her pale hair tangled because she'd cry if anyone tried to brush it, spinning around and around until she got so dizzy she fell in a pile of bare feet and dandelions and sundress.

Children can laugh all day and still cry themselves to sleep at night.

Moments before she planted a massive kiss right on his mouth. Call's eyes went wide. Hers were closed as she leaned into him. They stood like that for a moment. Call was aware that people were staring at them — Tamara looking shocked, and Aaron, standing near her, started to laugh. Call was pretty sure Aaron was laughing at the fact that Call, having no idea where to put his hands, was waving his arms around like a squid underwater.

I hate that you can do what you're supposed to do and I can't. I hate that you're going to leave me behind. I hate that everyone calls it growing up, but it seems like dying . It feels like each one of you is being possessed and I'm next.

He gave her a smile that wasn't really a smile at all. "Eh, it wouldn't be so bad. I wouldn't have to study for the SATs or get a summer job or figure out my major. I can drink Elderflower wine all day, dance all through the night, and sleep on a bower of roses." Hazel made a face. "I'm pretty sure there are some colleges where you can do that. I bet there are some colleges where you can major in that.

She went to all the parties and kissed all the boys, shoring up fun against despair, against the suffocating terror that loomed over her.

Love was a family religion, passed down to her when she'd been too young to protect herself from belief.

Kaye took another drag on her cigarette and dropped it into her mother's beer bottle. She figured that would be a good test for how drunk Ellen was--see if she would swallow a butt whole

She should tell him no, but instead she seemed to be running toward trouble, leaving no stone unturned, no boy unkissed, no crush abandoned, and no bad idea unembraced.

Hazel kissed boys for all kinds of reasons -- because they were cute, because she was a little drunk, because she was bored, because they let her, because it was fun, because they looked lonely, because it blotted out her fears for a while, because she wasn't sure how many kisses she had left.

Once, she made a boy come out of his house and kiss her under the streetlight. It was her first kiss. She thinks it was probably his, too. She never told him and she never, ever will.

And now she was sixteen and felt like she had no imagination left.

Reading about Bordertown was the first time I saw people like me in speculative fiction. Messed-up kids, making messsed-up choices. I couldn't be a magician's apprentice or a pig keeper who might or might not be a king's son or a princess with a prophecy hanging over my head. But I could, maybe, somehow, be part of a community of artists who loved magic.

I guess I knew it wasn't a game, but I ran anyway and I boosted myself up on the water spigot and poured through the window with the boneless grace of little kids.

He just looked like a pretty boy, tall and lanky. She thought again of the crumpled paper in her purse and of him, caged beneath a cemetery. How long had he been there? How long had he looked just as he did now? A hundred years? Two hundred? Could he even remember the press of time? Maybe having stepped outside of it would drive anybody crazy.

At seventeen, he has grown tall, towering over me, lithe and finely muscled. His hair catches the moonlight, warm gold threaded with platinum, bangs parting around small goat horns, eyes of shocking amber, and a constellation of freckles across his nose. He has a trickster's mouth and the swagger of someone used to people doing what he wanted.