Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory. >>
Danger lies in the writer becoming the victim of his own exaggeration, >>
Hang ideas! They are tramps, vagabonds, knocking at the back-door of y >>
The child thinks of growing old as an almost obscene calamity, which f >>
You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely. >>
Youth has no age. >>
I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more --the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort --to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires --and expires, too soon, too soon --before life itself.