He who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.


He who would pass his declining years with honor and comfort, should, when young, consider that he may one day become old, and remember when he is old, that he has once been young.


Here, with whitened hair, desires failing, strength ebbing out of him, with the sun gone down and with only the serenity and the calm warning of the evening star left to him, he drank to Life, to all it had been, to what it was, to what it would be. Hurrah!


How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.


How can I die? I'm booked.


How can the moribund old man reason back to himself the romance, the mystery, the imminence of great things with which our old earth tingled for him in the days when he was young and well?


How earthy old people become –moldy as the grave! Their wisdom smacks of the earth. There is no foretaste of immortality in it. They remind me of earthworms and mole crickets.


How incessant and great are the ills with which a prolonged old age is replete.


How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are.


How people keep correcting us when we are young! There is always some bad habit or other they tell us we ought to get over. Yet most bad habits are tools to help us through life.


How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!


I always looked to about thirty as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and determined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine –and I flatter myself (perhaps) that I have pretty well done so –and now the dross is coming.


I am admonished in many ways that time is pushing me inexorably along. I am approaching the threshold of age; in 1977 I shall be 142. This is no time to be flitting about the earth. I must cease from the activities proper to youth and begin to take on the dignities and gravities and inertia proper to that season of honorable senility which is on its way.


I am thirty-three — the age of the good Sans-culotte Jesus; an age fatal to revolutionists.


I believe the true function of age is memory. I'm recording as fast as I can.


I delight in men over seventy. They always offer one the devotion of a lifetime.


I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.


I don't generally feel anything until noon, then it's time for my nap.


I guess I don't so much mind being old, as I mind being fat and old.


I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.

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