Best 660 quotes in «coming of age quotes» category

Everything changes, sweetheart. The universe loves to happen.

Everything hurts right now and nothing is helping because as the pain is getting worse — so is the love.

Every time I think about that girl, my mind commits a sin.

Every time you lie to me, I still know your truth. Every time you tell me you're not allowed to love me anymore, I can still hear the gospel behind your tongue. And, that is not my silent desperation; that is your desperate silence.

Fall into the cavern of my mind, and together there, we will dine.

Fifteen and on the brink, that’s what Mum says about me. On the brink. Like it’s the continental shelf or something. On the brink of what? I want to yell. A rich and meaningful life? Disaster?

First of all, he was not my type. He was nice, considerate, unselfish and grounded; qualities I’d never experienced in a man. Usually, I went for the self centered, screwed up, “I’m lost, will you be my mother” type.

For as long as I shall live, I look forward to never growing old with you.

For the first time I realized adults could back themselves into corners so remote that love, or its memory, could no longer reach them.

For those that say it is better to sleep when you're dead... They mustn't dream like me, for there's no sleep in my asleep; my slumber's the liveliest place to ever be!

For some people history is a Beach or a Tower or a Graveyard. For me it was a giant primordial Toyshop with all its windows gloriously ablaze…It was my present for being alive.

...for they was never a young man yet who don't want to go out and right a wrong, or kill a man, or have to do something to earn his right to what is there for the taking, all along. Only he don't think he can ask, nor take, without earning it. Without no pain. Oftener than not, a young man's a regular fool.

Fueled by rage at God, or whoever else came up with the preposterous concept of free will, Anaya turned more corners. My challenges were cruel to the core. With so many choices to make in life, the line was hair-thin between success and failure, having money or being broke, being loved or hated, alive or dead.

Getting high only made me think of you more.

Fuck Kerouac; he would write his own story.

…girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and boring, but those “in the know” assured me that they were beautiful.

Go find your own hiding spot!” I hissed. “The seat is not wide enough to hold me and that whale you call a nightgown.” Also, we were better off if whoever was coming caught one of us – and by one of us, I meant Rose.

Gloomy room immersed in a scent of modern cowards filled with shapeless creatures sitting in silence because they have nothing to say Fake plastic faces with a grimace of disappointment painted on them Are we stuck on hold expecting our turn in a waiting room of so-called lost generation?

Goodbye. Goodbye. I can't feel you anymore. The night is almost too beautifully pure for my soul to contain. I walk with my arms spread open under the big fat moon. Heroic weeds rise up from the cracks in the sidewalk, and the colored lights of the Hawaiian Breeze ignite the broken glass in the gutter. Goodbye, I say, goodbye, as I disappear little by little into the middle of the middle of my own spectacular now.

Growing up, I never felt deprived. I was always happy. It seems only lately I've started seeing everything I didn't have.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

[...] 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'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 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’s so powerful. Who knows maybe he’s advanced past eating

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

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.