Quotes About Youth

For Liesel Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this: She became thirteen years of age. Her chest was still flat. She had not yet bled. The young man from her basement was now in her bed. ***Q&A*** How did Max Vandenburg end up in liesel's bed? He fell.

They're brainless girls, otherwise they wouldn't be seen dead here. They're pretty, with ugly, appealing smiles and conversations we can't hear. They breathe smoke and blow it out, and words drop from their mouths and get crushed to the floor. Or they get discarded, just to glow with warmth for a moment, for someone else to tread on later.

All four of us were young and undaunted and our smiles were so strong that it made me smile even then on the couch, with a kind of loss.

It was then that he also took the opportunity to say he was sorry that the Hubermann's son had not come home, In response, Papa told him that such things were out of their control. After all, he said, you should know it yourself--a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.

Each boy stood, slouched yet stiff, hands in pockets. If the dog had pockets, she'd have had her paws in them, too, for sure.

Never had movement been such a burden. Never had a heart been so definite and big in her adolescent chest.

Those kids, they would've loved this place, they would've walked and skipped and danced here, all legs and sunny hair. They'd have cartwheeled the lawn, shouting, And don't go lookin' at our knickers, right?

I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They're running at me.

The Hubbermanns had two of their own (children), but they were older and had moved out...Soon they would be both in the war. One would be making bullets. The other would be shooting them.

He was into the skating culture now and I was into, well, I'm not sure what I was into. I was into roaming around on my own, and I enjoyed it.

A couple of them were school beauty-queen pretty while a few were that more real-looking type. A realer kind of pretty.

She couldn't ever see how broken he was, while the rest of us stood and watched them. She was in jeans, bare feet and T-shirt, and maybe that's what finished us off. She looked just like a Dunbar boy. With that haircut she was one of us.

We don't need a point, son. We're juvenile, we're dirty, we don't have girls, we have noses full of snot, throats sore as hell, we've got scabs on us, we suffer bouts of acne, we've got no girls ... What more reasons do we need?

Mi nombre completo es Ed Kennedy. Tengo diecinueve años. Soy taxista menor de edad. Soy uno más de los muchos jóvenes que se ven en este pueblo próximo a la ciudad, sin demasiadas perspectivas ni posibilidades. Aparte de eso, leo más libros de los que debería, soy pésimo en la cama y un desastre haciendo la declaración de la renta. Encantado de conoceros.

I told her about school and how I sat on a wall there and felt stories and words move through me ...

Carey liked the fact that Michelangelo had had his nose broken as a teenager, for being too much of a smart mouth; a reminder that he was human. A badge of imperfection.

Anhelaba volver a la inconsciencia de entonces, a sentir tanto amor sin saberlo y a confundirlo con las risas y el pan untado con poco más que el aroma de la mermelada. Fue la mejor época de su vida. Aunque quedaría sembrada de bombas

THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION* * * Oh, yes, I definitely remember him The sky was murky and deep like quicksand. There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire, like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him out. High above the earth, we sank together, to our knees. It was just another day, 1918.

Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful. Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.

A few of them performed the beautiful childhood art of snickering.

A SMALL BUT NOTE WORTHY NOTE I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They're running at me. He

I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

The moon was undone now, free to move and rise and fall and drip on the boy's face, making him nice and murky, like his thoughts.

Pimples were gathered in peer groups