Best 660 quotes in «coming of age quotes» category

Hadn't she once had a love for adventure? Hadn't she once wanted to be the hero of her own tale?

Hardened, and kept jagged by the snow all I wished as I walked over the frosted dirt beneath my bare feet is that I would be able to tell the difference between good and evil.

Happy birthday to me. Twenty-four. Mid-twenties. Yay. I guess I have one year of youth left. At least I can round out twenty-four to twenty. Not so lucky with twenty-five, I’ll essentially be pushing thirty.

Having had some experience as a sci-fi writer myself, I found Suddenly Paris to be a very nicely written, YA Sci-Fi novel that turns the story of THE MATRIX on its head. It explores the following question. What if, instead of being people trapped in a synthesized dream world, we only think we are real? The ethical and existential questions that go along with computer generated characters inside a simulation acquiring self-awareness without an awareness that they are living in a simulated world are dealt with in a very entertaining story. Enjoy.

He always had a song to dictate to me. He did simple things, which meant the world to me.

He began to see the truth, that Ged had neither lost nor won but, naming the shadow of his death with his own name, had made himself whole: a man: who, knowing his whole true self, cannot be used or possessed by any power other than himself, and whose life therefore is lived for life's sake and never in the service of ruin, or pain, or hatred, or the dark. In the Creation of Ea, which is the oldest song, it is said, 'Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky.

He begins to sing to her, very softly, almost not singing at all, just a whisper of a tune. He spins out the tune like it is a tale he is telling her, until he feels her body relax, until he feels her falling into sleep. He sings to let her know he’s there, to stay anchored to the earth, to keep from laughing or crying in amazement that he is lying with Alice in his arms, he sings as if music could keep her alive, as if music could feed her soul, as if music could weave a protective spell around her to survive these days and these weeks and these months and these years, he sings as if he could give her a piece of himself, which will ring inside of her like a bell, like a promise, like hope whenever she needs him; and in his singing, he promises her every single thing he can think of, and more.

He could pour himself into my little paper cup heart and my emptiness would finally have a meaning.

He’d used the amulet to read my thoughts again. I pictured smacking him in the face.

He didn't see women as people; he saw them as trophies, and that is precisely why he never won me.

He ever offer to walk you home?" "I've never asked," Cath said quickly. "I've never asked you either." "That's true," Levi said. More quiet. More cold. The air stung Cath's throat when she finally spoke again. "So maybe you shouldn't." "Don't be ridiculous," Levi said. "That wasn't my point.

He helped me clean out my head in time for floweret sunshine, while I raked dead leaves from underneath the bed of my nails that were waiting to be organized in diaries. As the 'Forbidding Numb' piled up, he laundered my abandoned hope clean. All that I could smell on my hands were the roots of the root words I had diluted with extra letters and slushiness. There isn't a corner that we missed; and, in no time at all, I will forget the wretchedness of this winter. Soon, I will only smell peonies and calla lilies, fresh cotton sheets, and maybe—just maybe— the paperless books that I have written being pressed like petals; yet, no longer incinerators burning perished wood that already pushed up daisies right when autumn left its leaves behind me.

He is only fifteen! Does she really think he is prepared for marriage, especially with his intellectual range of a teacup?

He lies there listening to it, absorbing this sense of his own quiet drone transmuted into something of certain substance, something large, magnificent and grand—no longer him, no, but something bursting from him, leaving his split carcass behind as a monument to its source, its host, its feeding ground.

He looks shocked, and worse. He looks like he’s on the brink of breaking down completely.", Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

He looked at me, that first day, like he had just found something he’d lost a thousand years ago.

[...] He plays the guitar so well, you wouldn't believe it. But he doesn't have a band. And he doesn't try really hard to get one. He mostly plays alone in his room instead. That's what Kristen says. I think he does this for the same reason Hannah doesn't turn in her work when the teachers say she is smart. I think a lot of people want to be someone, but we are scared that if we try, we won't be as good as everyone imagines we could be.

Her regularly squared and french-tipped nails were dangerously chipped and jagged, and she touched her platinum hair so often that it had started to look like the kinked bristles of an overused toothbrush.

He shook his head and thought about it for a second. “Maybe I'm not straight? Can I still be straight when I'm sitting here looking into your eyes?” he asked. Maybe it was the alcohol talking or maybe he wasn't as straight as he thought he was. “Yes. Absolutely.” Cormag nodded and watched him closely. “Even when I think they're so pretty? They are, you know. So many different shades of brown…and a little green. Just a touch; not a lot. So pretty.” He sighed happily, watching those dark eyes staring back at him in surprise. He lay his head on his arms, smiling at the way Cormag flushed in embarrassment and turned his full attention onto his bottle of beer. “Wow, you are super drunk.

He's got all the pains of being lost and all the benefits of being told where to go. He wants it the other way around.

He tilted my chin up and I swear those lips are magic. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Whatever it is in those lips, it’s addictive. Unassailable. I had to have more. More of this feeling of being wanted.

He taught me what true love is: helping each other breathe a little easier— smooth and steady— instead of dying a little every day, choking on being loved as someone's vice.

He wanted revenge and I knew he would not stop until he got it. I had to hope he would run out of fuel.

He was a shadow of the man that once intimidated us out of our home, a shell of a human being, a fragment of a father.

He was a sharpshooter like that. Bullet straight to the heart.

He’s so powerful. Who knows maybe he’s advanced past eating

He was unrelenting, unmerciful, and singularly focused. Nothing stood in his way or hindered his journey. Until his end itself.

His mind had patterns, patterns that made puzzles, and puzzles that became mazes. Those mazes had color and became labyrinths— labyrinths that went crazy like jungles— and all he could trust me with was letting my fingers get lost in his curls. I played in there, for years trapped in his hair (that overthought and provoked lair)— the only thing between my thoughts and his: the air. But, he was smart not to trust me enough. He knew. The open air looked at him with slight eyes, issued him binds of lies, like library cards ...full of fiction. And I knew this, so how could I forget? Along the way, I turned into every other female he ever loved. It was his destiny that gave me permission to pull his hair again.

His body had almost no hair and his naked little circumcised johnson was nearly as pale as the rest of him, white as a boy's - perhaps over time one's genitals emerge from the pots and bubbling vats of love permanently stained, like the hands of a wool dyer.

His smile is beautiful. It's the kind of smile that can take away all nervousness and tension in a room, no matter how big. I have no choice but to smile back.

He would say things like, “But you are my wife!” when I didn’t do something that he wanted me to do. His expectations were not realistic.

High school will probably be better. I mean, some kids will still be jerks, but it's not so bad if you have at least one good friend. Someone who gets you.

Hip-hop, this thing we love that loves us back, is our lingua franca.

His hands were magnets—shifting polarities—drawn and repelled to the unknown parts of another man's body.

His stance, with hands tucked into blue jeans, held nothing casual about it. More than powerful, he seemed menacing, even. He turned to her with an arched brow, like a being from Olympus, curious about a mere mortal’s next move. Currents of fear sped up and down her spine, futilely searching for a place to cower.

Hope, in anything but myself, is just way too dangerous right now…

How can I put the Auras back in the chest?” I asked, terror boiling inside my stomach. “You can’t. Not if those that were or will be struck by them won’t be eager to express their feelings and let you help them. You do not change people, dearie. It’s the people that change themselves. You’re the Guardian, but they’re the bearers,” the Oracle whispered. “I’m no Guardian. I’m doomed!” I said and I knew that this was true.

I couldn't believe it. Something wasn't right. I thought, "Batman smokes cigarettes." I couldn't believe it. "Batman smokes fucking cigarettes." I walked away and saw that Batman was just this stupid guy dressed up in a rubber suit, just as afraid as I was, and that I lived in a lost place inside my own heart, where even Batman couldn't help me.

How readily we crush our dreams, without even turning over the first stone, so willing to be the victims of circumstance! She felt utterly miserable on behalf of all the teenagers the world over and allowed herself a few minutes more self-pity for the life she’d wasted, and the ones so many more would throw away. Doing as you pleased at this age, without seeking the help and advice of those qualified to give it, equaled marching into a minefield.

I am made of a thousand ghosts. Only you can shoot me down.

I can hear the moths crackling and burning on the bulb, I see myself as one of them, flitting around this porch light. I can imagine me bewitched by the wink and sparkle, but I couldn't imagine myself taking up camp here, forever. I am suddenly abundantly aware that this is not even summer yet. This is just a porch with a jerrybuilt swing and creaky planked floors, a frayed recliner, and splays of gray hairs just (now) taking root. I remember that first summer when we strung sprinklers like toy lanterns...

How'd you know that would help, Grandma? Used to have a regular who had attacks like that all the time. Poor guy. He was an accountant, loveless marriage-most of em were back then-and vaginas scared the bejeezus outta him.

How stupid that all I have to do is grow two squishy lumps and suddenly I'm man's best friend

Hush now, ‘tis time to sleep and dream secrets of long ago.

I am both the singular and the plural. I am what was, what is, and what will be. I am everything that is and isn't.

I am looking through a lace curtain at a dead man's feet. I am ten years old, the mist is rising on a fall morning in 1944 in Sawyer, Georgia, and I am standing on a front porch painted gray with white trim.

I appreciate your thinking on me, marshal, but ain’t no trouble of his what ain’t trouble of mine, too.

I brooded over it. If it had been any other dream, I would have ignored it. But it was one of those dreams. One of those purple dreams. One of those dreams that had an unusual tendency to come true.

I can see that Drew is trying to be strong and not show any emotion, and I want to comfort him, so I let him hold me. The problem with doing that, of course, is that he’s Drew. He only knows one way to interpret that kind of touch.", Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

I caught his hand. “What do you want me to do?” Leaning down, he kissed the pulse beating on my neck just above the damaged skin. “Tomorrow, I need you to die.