Quotes About Youth

She wondered how old they were, with their strange smooth faces and silken skin, and the muscled hands that didn't match their educated voices.

Her headlong rush telegraphed all her youth and incaution.

Her skin was soft with age, the bones and tendons visible.

Still perfect sixteen, and she glares when Ellie and I burst out laughing.

They came down together, the old wolf in his kilt and dinner jacket leaning on the young one in his cedar-smelling tuxedo.

I think the real reason you're such a goody-two shoes is because this is your Judicially constructed personality. The you you know is Judicial Recon, because you were a juvenille when what happened, happened. So they gave you a clear slate and a clean bill of health.

Ah, hell. And this ship has kids onboard. Kids not much older than Leah. Kids the same age I was when I signed in on to this man's army.

Whatever he was before, he's but a candle-flicker now. A beautiful one, polished and glossy, all the more perfect for the terrible, disfiguring scar that puckers and knots the right side of his face when he smiles. It doesn't seem to bother the young man's admirers; if anything, the wolf thinks some of them find it erotic. The boy shies away like a startled horse, an animal he will never see when women and men wonderingly brush the raw-lipped pink line.

In the few days Seeker had been away, Hope had grown from abused girl to aristocratic young woman. It was in every line as she tilted her head to the side, listening to laughter floating down the sweeping stairwell-in the calluses on her fingertips and the smile at the edge of her eyes.

The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.

He looked so terribly young, a slender boy with a boy's narrow shoulders and his father's, green, green eyes.

Katya was fifteen Amazonian years-twenty-odd, in standard conversion-and impatient with anything that smacked of responsible adulthood. And she wouldn't wear her honor around the house; her hip was naked even of a holster. Of course, Lesa-both hands full of groceries, unable to reach her honor without dropping chickens or fruit-wasn't much of an example, whatever her renown as duelist twenty years and three children ago.

Patty's mouth twisted; her expression said creepy kid, but Genie was too lonely to get up and leave, even if she knew Patty didn't want her there.

The girl was tall, almost sexless in her slenderness and anything but sensual, though she was naked except for streaks of indigo blood, dirt, and manacles.

She was old, and too worn thin to wonder. But oh, what a beautiful boy he was then.

The girl-no older than Rien, though far more imposing-was Family.

He's a fragile, girlish sort of a boy with eyes like watchful black jewels.

Oh, little boy, when did you get so wise?

Such a pretty lad," she said. "I remember your brother very well. Good sport in that one.

Kit turned to fix Ben with a glare, but the wry bemusement on the young poet's face turned a searing glance into a sideways shrug. One that made Ben cough again, and then burst out laughing, both hands over his face.

Tristen could imagine enjoying himself in a role as figurehead, surrounded by eager and talented young persons who did all the hard work while he basked in reflected-and retrospective glory.

From the vantage of Cathoair's nineteen years, it was a span beyond bewildering into incomprehensible.

I had a theory at that time that one should write down all one's dreams. That that was the way to write poetry. So I kept a notebook of my dreams and thought if you ate a lot of awful cheese at bedtime you'd have interesting dreams. I went to Vassar with a pot about this big--it did have a cover!--of Roquefort cheese that I kept in the bottom of my bookcase . . . I think everyone's given to eccentricities at that age. I've heard that at Oxford Auden slept with a revolver under his pillow.

And if we Severinos are all the same in life, we die the same death, the same Severino death. The death of those who die of old age before thirty, of an ambuscade before twenty, of hunger a little daily.