Childhood (n.) has colors life later finds too harsh: the hues we once loved show up again only on the coats of the weak-minded and the unfortunate.
Childhood (n.) is the fate of whoever peeped too soon into the kettle of life: like Virgil, whose boiling was interrupted, he vanishes with a child's cry and never grows up.
Childhood (n.) discovered too late — by a man who never had one and now, teaching the young, stares back at a past that never had significance for him — is a perfect unhappiness.
Childhood (n.) is full of dread — the thirst for adventure, the prodigious, the mysterious — which alarms the child and captivates it with sweet apprehension.
Childhood (n.) is a dream-life though the child is wider awake than any adult, every sense open, because what is deepest in a human being, inwardness, is still asleep.
Childhood (n.) is the entrance requirement for the kingdom of heaven, which would be the most disheartening thing ever said if meant literally, since the child itself does not know what it is to be a child.