Quotes About Childhood

Children, brought up naturally and in freedom, not only have imagination, but live in a world of imagination more real to them than our reality. ("Absolute Evil")

Since childhood, I had always been affected by the changes of the moon, sometimes very much so. As the light of the satellite fell on my face my mind cleared, and I knew what was to be done. ("Absolute Evil")

The doctor explained that this type of relapse occurred in less than ten percent of childhood leukemia patients, and that Megan would require frequent spinal taps to inject chemotherapy drugs directly into her cerebrospinal fluid.

I am told that the first comprehensible word I uttered as a child was 'home.'

I hope they remember the good stuff, when I was a baby, a toddler, when they still had hopes and dreams for their little girl, their miracle child. In truth they were good to me. They were only doing what they knew how to do; what they thought was best.

As a child, I wanted only two things - to be left alone to read my library books, and to get away from my provincial hometown and go to London to be a writer. And I always knew that when I got there, I wanted to make loads of money.

Being a child is horrible. It is slightly better than being a tree or a piece of heavy machinery but not half as good as being a domestic cat.

Bobby squealed with delight. "I'll take a norange one and a labbender one," he said happily. "Labbender is sometimes almost always my very favrit color.

I never sexually 'let down' much with people—male or female. Perhaps because to me, as an only and over-loved child, I associated caresses with the threat of possession. And my yearning for love with vulnerability.

A child's fear is a world whose dark corners are quite unknown to grownup people it has its sky and its abysses, a sky without stars, abysses into which no light can ever penetrate.

quando me passeio por Passy parece-me que deambulo por dentro de mim mesmo e que tropeço incessantemente na minha infância.

The archive of supposed photocopies (I.E. memory) actually offers up strange creatures; the green paradise of childhood loves that Baudelaire recalled is for many a future in reverse, an obverse of hope in the face of the gray purgatory of adult loves.

Al despedirnos éramos como dos chicos que se han hecho estrepitosamente amigos en una fiesta de cumpleaños y se siguen mirando mientras los padres los tiran de la mano y los arrastran, y es un dolor dulce y una esperanza, y se sabe que uno se llama Tony y la otra Lulú, y basta para que el corazón sea como una frutilla, y...

Sí Babs sí. Rock-a-bye baby. Tura-lura-lura. Sí Babs sí.

Poco a poco, sin embargo, se va adquiriendo la habilidad necesaria para salvar las diferentes casillas […], lo malo es que justamente a esa altura, cuando casi nadie ha aprendido a remontar la piedrita hasta el Cielo, se acaba de golpe la infancia y se cae en las novelas».

hasta mucho despues hubiera queido creer, hubiera defendido desesperadamente que todo eso habia tenido el aire de un juego de infancia con los ojos cerrados, un gallo ciego golpeandose en los muebles y rechazando la idea de que fueran muebles, prolongando la ilusion del juego, pero era falso porque las cosas ocurrian por debajo o por encima de los parpados sin ejar de ser las mismas cosas

As a child, my idea of the West was that it was a miasma of poverty and misery, like that of the homeless 'Little Match Girl'in the Hans Christian Andersen story. When I was in the boarding nursery and did not want to finish my food, the teacher would say:'Think of all the starving children in the capitalist world!

Her last painting was of you, slouching against the front door: only your drowning I-had-a-lousy-Third-World-childhood-and-all-I-got-was-this-attitude eyes recognizable.

I certainly couldn't have survived my childhood without books. All that deprivation and pain--abuse, broken home, a runaway sister, a brother with cancer--the books allowed me to withstand. They sustained me. I read still, prolifically, with great passion, but never like I read in those days: in those days it was life or death.

Alma is in a painting phase, and the people she paints are all the color of mold, look like they've just been dredged from the bottom of a lake. Her last painting was of you, slouching against the front door: only your frowning I-had-a-lousy-Third-World-childhood-and-all-I-got-was-this-attitude eyes recognizable.

and in the gloaming of her dwindling strength there yawned a loneliness so total it was beyond death, a loneliness that obliterated all memory, the loneliness of a childhood where she'd not even had her own name

Never had the opportunity in her first lost childhood; and in the intervening years her desire for it had doubled over and doubled over like a katana being forged until finally it was sharper than the truth.

You don't know what it's like to grow up with a mother who never said a positive thing in her life, not about her children or the world, who was always suspicious, always tearing you down and splitting your dreams straight down the seams.

she has a four-year-old named Justin. She shows you pictures; kid looks like he'll be dropping an album if she's not careful.