Quotes About Childhood

Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees—something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

In still earlier years than those I have been recalling, Holliday's Hill, in our town, was to me the noblest work of God. It appeared to pierce the skies. It was nearly three hundred feet high. In those days I pondered the subject much, but I never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows. I had heard that such was the custom of great mountains in other parts of the world.

to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.

White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking

Yet little Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of it but did not know it. It was the sort of time that all the Offal Court boys had; therefore he supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing.

I took up my knife and fork and--- well, I simply held them, and kept still; for the boy had inclined his head and was saying a silent grace. A thousand hallowed memories of home and my childhood poured in upon me, and I sigh to think how far I had drifted from religion and its balm for hurt minds, its comfort and solace and support.

Le romancier qui écrit une histoire d'adulte sait exactement où et comment s'arrêter, c'est le plus souvent par un mariage. Quand il s'agit d'un enfant, il s'arrête où il peut.

Una di queste giovani madri non era che una ragazzina e mi fece male al cuore leggere quella sofferenza e pensare che scaturiva dall'animo di una bambina, un animo che non avrebbe dovuto ancora conoscere il dolore, ma soltanto la gioia del mattino della vita.

No Protestant child exists who does not masturbate. That art is the earliest accomplishment his religion confers upon him. Also the earliest her religion confers upon her.

He was waving. Saukerl, she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that's as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.

Saukerl, she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that's as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.

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?

Did you learn? The face in the corner watched the flames. I did. There was a considerable pause. Until I was nine. At that age, my mother sold the music studio and stopped teaching. SHe kept only the one instrument but gave up on me not long after I resisted the learning. I was foolish. No, Papa said. You were a boy.

Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform.

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

The dilemma, of course, was the communism. A single great idea. A thousand limits and flaws. Growing up, Penelope never noticed. What child ever does? There was nothing to compare it to.

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

Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. "Book, sandpaper, pencil," he ordered her, "and accordion!" once she was already gone. Soon, they were on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing.

That was when the world wasn't so big and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.

In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. "It was the best we could do," Papa apologized. "What are you talking about? She's lucky to have that much," Mama corrected him.

Keep playing, Papa. Papa stopped.

Saukerl, rise lei, e, mentre alzava una mano, fu assolutamente certa che anche lui, nel medesimo istante, la chiamasse Saumensch. Credo che sia la cosa più prossima all'amore cui sappiano giungere degli undicenni.

It was one of the joys of childhood.

The child was an invention of the seventeenth century; he did not exist in, say, Shakespeare's day. He had, up until that time, been merged in the adult world and there was nothing that could be called childhood in our sense. Today's child is growing up absurd, because he lives in two worlds, and neither of them inclines him to grow up. Growing up - that is our new work, and it is total. Mere instruction will not suffice.