The young leading the young is like the blind leading the blind.

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.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

A dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age in a worn-out state.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

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

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

The boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 

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.

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.