No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.

Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last miserable.

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

Even members of the nobility, let alone persons of no consequence, would do well not to have children. 

Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body, to try the manners of different nations, to hear the chimes at midnight.

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love.

Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.