Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.
Great griefs exhaust. They discourage us with life. The man into whom they enter feels something taken from him. In youth, their visit is sad; later on, it is ominous.
Youth is the future smiling at a stranger, which is itself.
Youth, even in its sorrows, always has a brilliancy of its own.
O youth! thou often tearest thy wings against the thorns of voluptuousness.
When people look back at their childhood or youth, their wistfulness comes from the memory, not of what their lives had been in those years, but of what life had then promised to be. The expectation of some indefinable splendor, of the unusual, the exciting, the great is an attribute of youth and the process of aging is the process of that expectations' gradual extinction. One does not have to let it happen. But that fire dies for lack of fuel, under the gray weight of disappointments.
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