Youth is not a time of life, it is a state of mind ; it is not rosy cheeks , red lips and supple knees, it is a matter of the emotions : it is the freshness ; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life .
Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity of the appetite , for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of 60 more than a boy of 20 . Nobody grows old merely by a number of years . We grow old by deserting our ideals.
Years wrinkle the skin , but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul . Worry , fear , self –distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust .
Whether 60 of 16 , there is in every human being ‘s heart the lure of wonders, the unfailing childlike appetite of what’s next and the joy of the game of living . In the center of your heart and my heart there’s a wireless station : so longas it receives messages of beauty , hope ,cheer, courag
When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. “Don’t be silly, only geniuses can become writers,” the English teacher said smugly, “And you are getting a D this semester.” I was so humiliated I burst into tears.
That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capri’s Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment, they published it and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer. I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed. “Just plain dumb luck,” the teacher said. I tasted success. I’d sold the first thing I’d ever written. That was more than any of them had done and if it was just dumb luck, that was fine with me.
During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school, with a C minus average, I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.
I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby. I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find. I’d never heard of manuscript boxes. The letter I enclosed read, “I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustrations. Chapter six and twelve are my favourites. Thank you.” I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addressed stamped envelope and without making a copy of the manuscript.
A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties, and a request to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the title of my book, became a best seller, was translated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in native American schools in Canada.