Best 2381 quotes in «childhood quotes» category

Don't worry about any of this stuff, okay? It's all just adult junk that doesn't mean anything.

Don`t you worry Roald Dahl, The 6-year old me loved you but the 16-year old me worships you.

Do you have a personal mantra? Mine comes from a childhood song. "Wherever I go the grass grows greener.

Do you ever plan to grow up, Veltan?” he asked. “Not if I can avoid it, no.

Do you remember how this life of yours longed in childhood to belong to the grown-ups? I can see that it now longs to move on from them and is drawn to those who are greater yet. That is why it does not cease to be difficult, but also why it will not cease to grow.

Do you remember the books from our childhood? Those were you could decide yourself what the character should do next? I always loved those books, getting to decide what will happen, being responsible for it. But did you ever decided for something, flipped to the page, read it and then thought: "No, I don't want this to happen!" And then you went back to where it all went wrong and just took a different path. It was always so easy with those books, if you didn't like what was happening you just chose a different path, like pressing rewind till it makes sense again and then hit play. It's not like I am always unhappy with my words, actions or decisions in a situation, but I can't stop wondering how everything would be right now if I had said something different at some point. I guess I will never know but it makes me question my words, decisions and actions right now, because what if I chose wrong and then I don't get what I wish for because of one word or one step?

During childhood, it’s about trying to help develop who your kid’s going to be. During adolescence, it’s about responding to who your kid wants to be.

Dustpaw, Sandpaw and Graypaw were play fighting, chasing one another's tails and bundling one another around the clearing.

Each day, Luna's ability to break rules in new and creative ways was an astonishment to all who knew her. She tried to ride the goats, tried to roll boulders down the mountain and into the side of the barn (for decoration, she explained), tried to teach the chickens to fly, and once almost drowned in the swamp. (Glerk saved her. Thank goodness.) She gave ale to the geese to see if it made them walk funny (it did) and put peppercorns in the goat's feed to see if it would make them jump (they didn't jump; they just destroyed the fence). Every day she goaded Fyrian into making atrocious choices or she played tricks on the poor dragon, making him cry. She climbed, hid, built, broke, wrote on the walls, and spoiled dresses when they had only just been finished. Her hair ratted, her nose smudged, and she left handprints wherever she went

Dwight Eisenhower said that from the beginning, his mother and father operated on an assumption that set the course of his life - that the world could be fixed of its problems if every child understood the necessity of their existence. Eisenhower's parents assumed, and taught their children, that if their children weren't alive, their family couldn't function. (page 34)

Each 'RED BUTTON' is representative of a thousand children raped. Don't like that word? Well, children, I assume, don't like being raped either. And by Catholic priests sworn to protect those God ordains strength (?)

Early reading is serendipitous, and rightly so. Gloriously so. Libraries favor serendipity, invite it; the roaming along a shelf, eyeing an unfamiliar name, taking this down, then that--oh, who's this? Never heard of her--give her a go? That is where, and how, you learn affinity and rejection. You find out what you like by exploring what you do not.

Either I can go back to my childhood or my childhood can come forth to me. This is what I'm desperately wishes...

Emilio was certainly within his rights not to reveal the sordid details of his childhood even to his friends. Or perhaps especially to his friends, whose good opinion of him, he might feel, would not survive the revelations.

Emotional incest is yet another form of emotional abuse. Emotional incest commonly involves the reversal of the parent/child roles. When this occurs, the mother or father "parentifies" the child who is then manipulated to gratify the unmet childhood needs of the parent. This typically manifests as the parent pumping the child for the unconditional love that she should herself be giving.

Enfim, por alguma razão se fazem as guerras, respondeu o avô, levantando as sobrancelhas. Só nas guerras é que os homens podem matar-se uns aos outros sem serem castigados.

En tant qu'il existe pour soi l'enfant ne saurait se saisir comme sexuellement différencié. (...) C'est à travers les yeux, les mains, non par les paties sexuelles qu'ils appréhendent l'univers.

En sevdiği oyuncağıydı. Neydi? Kırmızıya boyanmış, ufak, tahta bir kuş. Kırmızıydı, gerçekten öyleydi; tam da gün ışığında, gölgede, mumlarla, şöminenin başında ona bakan bir oğlan çocuğunu hayallere daldıracak, parlak, tatlı bir kırmızı. Ama muhabbetkuşu ya da öyle değersiz bir tür olduğunu sanmayın. Hayır, onun kuşu bir baykuştu.

Envy is a much natural byproduct when your childhood isn’t the way it is supposed to be

Era um dos efeitos colaterais da juventude: sair da inocência e ingenuidade da infância e cair na alienação umbigocêntrica daquela fase em que acreditamos que já somos adultos. Mas é somente isso, achismo e autoengano. Ainda há um longo caminho pela frente e muito a aprender. Muito mesmo.

E' una bambina che è stata punita per la sua innocente superbia, una bambina che ha commesso l'errore di pensare di essere grande quando era piccola, di contare quando non valeva niente, di essere circondata dall'affetto del mondo quando in realtà il mondo non è che un enorme locomotore morto, con un motore ma senza fanale.

Every child likes to take a pencil to make a mark. Everybody makes beautiful things when they are three, four, or five years old. Most people lose that spontaneity; I think that always happens. Some are able to win a second spontaneity.

...even a poisoned, desolate childhood can be missed.

Eventually he understood that he was crying for himself. He was ashamed of the man whom he had become, mourning the man whom he had expected to be when he'd been a boy.

Every child born into the world has a divine mission to fulfill. As the child grows into adulthood, he or she must act to fulfill the divine mission.

Every child should have love, every person should have it. She herself would rather have had her mother's love - the love she still continued to believe in, the love that had followed her through the jungle in the form of a bird so she would not be too frightened or lonely.

Every corner and room of a house will carry memories, make these the most pleasurable times you shared with your family.

Every moment I have ever experienced as a child is as important as every moment I am experiencing now, or will experience ever. I guess what I'm saying is that not everybody should have children.

Every person will become three time child in their life. One when they are child, Second when they become parents and third when they become grandparents. It's never be gone.

Every November of my boyhood, we put on red poppies and attended highly patriotic services in remembrance of those who had 'given' their lives. But on what assurance did we know that these gifts had really been made? Only the survivors—the living—could attest to it. In order to know that a person had truly laid down his life for his friends, or comrades, one would have to hear it from his own lips, or at least have heard it promised in advance. And that presented another difficulty. Many brave and now dead soldiers had nonetheless been conscripts. The known martyrs—those who actually, voluntarily sought death and rejoiced in the fact—had been the kamikaze pilots, immolating themselves to propitiate a 'divine' emperor who looked (as Orwell once phrased it) like a monkey on a stick. Their Christian predecessors had endured torture and death (as well as inflicted it) in order to set up a theocracy. Their modern equivalents would be the suicide murderers, who mostly have the same aim in mind. About people who set out to lose their lives, then, there seems to hang an air of fanaticism: a gigantic sense of self-importance unattractively fused with a masochistic tendency to self-abnegation. Not wholesome. The better and more realistic test would therefore seem to be: In what cause, or on what principle, would you risk your life?

Every Saturday morning, first thing before breakfast, his parents held conferences with their children requiring them to answer two questions put to each of them: 1. What have you learned that is true (and how do you know)? 2. What problem do you have?

Fathers are ironic, they want democracy in their country but dictatorship in their home.

Fag Bush Betty leaned against the sink and the supports whined under her weight, but she leaned anyway and picked stuff out of her teeth, using the mirror as a reference. She stopped after a few crevices and looked at herself. I’d seen a ton of women give themselves that look to themselves in the mirror before. Those eyes were searching for the answer. The way her eyebrows made her forehead wrinkle up, and her chapped lips and skin that was loose on parts of body gave her a very gaunt texture and appearance. I didn’t need a change of light or a particular aimed luminescence to see the extreme parts of her. I could see her spine, and every bone in it. She turned the faucet on and ran water into her hands, splashing it onto her face and letting the beads run down her cheeks, over the edge of her chin and down beside the veins in her neck. “I do that sometimes too,” I said. She turned her head with her back still facing me. “That, right there, stand above the sink and using the water like that,” I said, “never helps though, but it’s funny how it makes your eyes burn. I’ll take a shower sometimes and get real clean. I’ll wash everything. Later that night I’ll have a freak out and walk over to the sink, same as you, naked as hell. I’ll splash water on my face but still when it gets in my eyes it burns. Like there’s some dirt or sweat that I missed while in the shower. It always happens that way. I can’t seem to get everything, and my eyes just… burn. Sometimes the sweat really makes them sting. And there’s nothing you can really do about it, ya have to let it burn until it washes out.

Fairytales are healthy for the children. As they grow up, the magical thinking wears off, but the fairytale-induced creative brain circuits stay forever.

Father didn't expect us to sew, or play with dolls like other girls. Instead he gave us the books our mother had written, and encouraged us to read. He taught us independence is admirable, and imagination indispensable.

Father had stretched out his long legs and was tilting back in his chair. Mother sat with her knees crossed, in blue slacks, smoking a Chesterfield. The dessert dishes were still on the table. My sisters were nowhere in evidence. It was a warm evening; the big dining-room windows gave onto blooming rhododendrons. Mother regarded me warmly. She gave me to understand that she was glad I had found what I had been looking for, but that she and father were happy to sit with their coffee, and would not be coming down. She did not say, but I understood at once, that they had their pursuits (coffee?) and I had mine. She did not say, but I began to understand then, that you do what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself. I had essentially been handed my own life. In subsequent years my parents would praise my drawings and poems, and supply me with books, art supplies, and sports equipment, and listen to my troubles and enthusiasms, and supervise my hours, and discuss and inform, but they would not get involved with my detective work, nor hear about my reading, nor inquire about my homework or term papers or exams, nor visit the salamanders I caught, nor listen to me play the piano, nor attend my field hockey games, nor fuss over my insect collection with me, or my poetry collection or stamp collection or rock collection. My days and nights were my own to plan and fill.

Every summer, like the roses, childhood returns.

Everything was brighter and more colorful in those years, as if my childhood was ending in an explosion of unreal passion that made my life feel sacred and holy.

Every time we see a child we travel back to the times we have forgotten and we bitterly visit all the beautiful things taken from us in the name of being an adult!

Exploring the dangerous margins of creativity is as essential as the safe, frequented center.

Fairy-tales exist and the best proof for this is our own childhood! Yes, childhood is a real fairy tale!

Family is not disparate relationships between individuals and machines, in separate rooms of a house. Childhood is not a race to accumulate all of the consumer goods and stresses of adulthood in record time. Simplification signals a change and makes room for transformation. It is a stripping away that invites clarity.

Father never approved of my toys Saw them as child's playthings I was a child They were my world I ruled there And he stepped on them Destroying them And in turn Destroyed me I should have been left to play Now I must step on everything

Ficámos de novo sem assunto. Olhei à minha volta. O branco é triste como o negro, nunca antes o tinha sentido. (...) Não lhe acariciei a mão, nem lhe pus a minha sobre a testa, num gesto de consolação. Não fiz nada disso. E devia-o ter feito. Mas que a tristeza me dominou, que apeteceu chorar, por ver o meu pai tão doente, isso era verdade. Ele tê-lo-ia compreendido? Decerto é ilusão julgarmos que outras pessoas podem compartilhar dos nossos sentimentos através de simples palavras. Se eu dissesse que vejo na memória um homem encolhido na cadeira, metido num fato largo demais como se não pertencesse, com as mãos amarelo torcidas sobre o ventre e o olhar fixo no chão, alguém o verá como eu o vi?

Flawed Human Parents + Shit Life Throws At You = Childhood That 'Builds Character.

Films, photos, books, clothes, music... it's all so simple at face value, but it has the incredible power to make us nostalgic for earlier eras we never grew up in.

...for if we try to go on protecting them we prevent them from growing up to be ordinary, confident adults, capable of looking after themselves.

For children, childhood is timeless. It is always the present. Everything is in the present tense. Of course, they have memories. Of course, time shifts a little for them and Christmas comes round in the end. But they don’t feel it. Today is what they feel, and when they say ‘When I grow up,’ there is always an edge of disbelief—how could they ever be other than what they are?

Forgetting the injustices and seeming injustices which one suffered from one's parents during childhood and youth must be the major part of any maturing process.

For him, it appeared he could freeze the moment in a memory; only for it to slip through his hands like water.