Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

Childhood has no forebodings—but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

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

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

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

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

No one’s serious at seventeen.

The young always have the same problem—how to rebel and conform at the same time. They have now solved this by defying their elders and copying one another.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

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

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

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

Ah, there are no children nowadays.