It is a sobering thought, that when Mozart was my age he had been dead for two years.
It is a toss up whether it is worse to be old and bent or young and broke.
It is not all bad, this getting old, ripening. After the fruit has got its growth it should juice up and mellow. God forbid I should live long enough to ferment and rot and fall to the ground in a squash.
It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart.
It is not how old you are, but how you are old.
It is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life's parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny: in a way it preserves it by giving it the absolute dimension. Death does away with time.
It is only necessary to grow old to become more charitable and even indulgent. I see no fault committed by others that I have not committed myself.
It really costs me a lot emotionally to watch myself on-screen. I think of myself, and feel like I'm quite young, and then I look at this old man with the baggy chins and the tired eyes and the receding hairline and all that.
It takes a long time to become young.
It was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel that I was no longer a boy. From that moment I began to grow old in my own esteem –and in my esteem age is not estimable.
It's good to be here. At 98, it's good to be anywhere.
Just remember, once you're over the hill you begin to pick up speed.
Keep on raging — to stop the aging.
Let us not be too particular; it is better to have old secondhand diamonds than none at all.''
Life begins at 40 — but so do fallen arches, rheumatism, faulty eyesight, and the tendency to tell a story to the same person, three or four times.
Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen.
Like a morning dream, life becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter as we approach the end.
Like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its tone is mellower, its colors are richer, and it is tinged with a little sorrow. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and its content.
Live your life and forget your age.
Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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