#adolescence

I don't write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents. ↗

— Suzanne Collins

#adolescence #i #i write #war #write

Even as kids reach adolescence, they need more than ever for us to watch over them. Adolescence is not about letting go. It's about hanging on during a very bumpy ride. ↗

— Ron Taffel

#about #adolescence #during #even #ever

A twenty-one-year-old writer is likely to be inhibited by a lack of usable experience. Childhood and adolescence were something I knew. ↗

— Ian Mcewan

#childhood #experience #i #inhibited #knew

Premature burial works just fine as a cure for adolescence. ↗

— George Alec Effinger

#burial #cure #fine #just #premature

Friendships in childhood are usually a matter of chance, whereas in adolescence they are most often a matter of choice. ↗

— David Elkind

#adolescence #chance #childhood #choice #friendships

Just because I do what I do doesn't mean I escaped adolescence, all the bumps and bruises that go along with it. ↗

— Anna Paquin

#along #because #bumps #escaped #go

My actual childhood, as opposed to my adolescence, was not spent in London. ↗

— Peter Shaffer

#adolescence #childhood #london #opposed #spent

I remembered that time of life when most of what matters can be summed up by the phase 'the other kids,' and it struck me as pitiful. The dread was more complex. ... Dread is a lure, and I cold feel its tug, but why? ... Perception is never passive. We are not only receivers of the world; we also actively produce it. There is a hallucinatory quality to all perception, and illusions are easy to create. [pp. 656-66] ↗

— Siri Hustvedt

#life

Children, even infants, are capable of sympathy. But only after adolescence are we capable of compassion. ↗

— Louise J. Kaplan

#adolescence #after #capable #children #compassion

Later, at the sink in our van, Mama rinsed the blue stain and the odd spiders, caterpillars, and stems from the bucket. "Not what we usually start with, but we can go again tomorrow. And this will set up nicely in about six, eight jars." The berries were beginning to simmer in the big pot on the back burner. Mama pushed her dark wooden spoon into the foaming berries and cicrcled the wall of the pot slowly. I leaned my hot arms on the table and said, "Iphy better not go tomorrow. She got tired today." I was smelling the berries and Mamaa's sweat, and watching the flex of the blue veins behind her knees. "Does them good. The twins always loved picking berries, even more than eating them. Though Elly likes her jam." "Elly doesn't like anything anymore." The knees stiffened and I looked up. The spoon was motionless. Mama stared at the pot. "Mama, Elly isn't there anymore. Iphy's changed. Everything's changed. This whole berry business, cooking big meals that nobody comes for, birthday cakes for Arty. It's dumb, Mama. Stop pretending. There isn't any family anymore, Mama." Then she cracked me with the big spoon. It smacked wet and hard across my ear, and the purple-black juice spayed across the table. She started at me, terrified, her mouth and eyes gaping with fear. I stared gaping at her. I broke and ran. I went to the generator truck and climbed up to sit by Grandpa. That's the only time Mama ever hit me and I knew I deserved it. I also knew that Mama was too far gone to understand why I deserved it. She'd swung that spoon in a tigerish reflex at blasphemy. But I believed that Arty had turned his back on us, that the twins were broken, that the Chick was lost, that Papa was weak and scared, that Mama was spinning fog, and that I was an adolescent crone sitting in the ruins, watching the beams crumble, and warming myself in the smoke from the funeral pyre. That was how I felt, and I wanted company. I hated Mama for refusing to see enough to be miserable with me. Maybe, too, enough of my child heart was still with me to think that if she would only open her eyes she could fix it all back up like a busted toy. ↗

— Katherine Dunn

#business