I hated high school. I don’t trust anybody who looks back on the years from 14 to 18 with any enjoyment. If you liked being a teenager, there’s something wrong with you.
The people are chic fugitives from life and death, rattling their teacups in querulous emotion on the deep protective balcony. They spell the names of hotels and cities with flower beds and laburnum in Switzerland and even the streetlights wore crowns of verbena.
― Zelda Fitzgerald, “Show Mr. and Mrs. F. to Number ——-” (1929)