All Quotes By Tag: Age
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“Just ’cause there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there’s not a fire inside.”
“For children, childhood is timeless. It is always the present. Everything is in the present tense. Of course, they have memories. Of course, time shifts a little for them and Christmas comes round in the end. But they don’t feel it. Today is what they feel, and when they say ‘When I grow up,’ there is always an edge of disbelief—how could they ever be other than what they are?”
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“And still the brain continues to yearn, continues to burn, foolishly, with desire. My old man’s brain is mocked by a body that still longs to stretch in the sun and form a beautiful shape in someone else’s gaze, to lie under a blue sky and dream of helpless, selfless love, to behold itself, illuminated, in the golden light of another’s eyes.”
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“By the time you’re thirty, your worst enemy is yourself.”
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“How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!”
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“This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified.”
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“A seeker of radical strenght Keeps everything on track, Feeble force yields at length, Not sure where to go back. When one can’t find courage, And all the efforts seem vain, It’s advised to fight like a sage: Be powerful like a bullet train! Too much work and no play Can make a brain go astray! Determined to live and stay Can lead life into a long way.”
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“Most adults are knowledgeable to a child, but ignorant for their age.”
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“We envy people who are extremely old because we wish to live that long, not because we want to be that old.”
“With regard to things such as independence, mental capabilities, and sexuality, a very old man is nothing but a gigantic infant with white hair and wrinkles.”
“Old age doth in sharp pains abound;We are belabored by the gout,Our blindness is a dark profound,Our deafness each one laughs about.Then reason’s light with falling rayDoth but a trembling flicker cast.Honor to age, ye children pay!Alas! my fifty years are past!”
“Life versus Death becomes, as Montaigne pointed out, Old Age versus Death. ”
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“The other day as I was stepping out of Star Grocery on Claremont Avenue with some pork ribs under my arm, the Berkeley sky cloudless, a smell of jasmine in the air, a car driving by with its window rolled down, trailing a sweet ache of the Allman Brothers’ “Melissa,” it struck me that in order to have reached only the midpoint of my life I will need to live to be 92. That’s pretty old. If you live to be ninety-two, you’ve done well for yourself. I’d like to be optimistic, and I try to take care of my health, but none of my grandparents even made it past 76, three killed by cancer, one by Parkinson’s disease. If I live no longer than any of them did, I have at most thirty years left, which puts me around sixty percent of the way through my time.I am comfortable with the idea of mortality, or at least I always have been, up until now. I never felt the need to believe in heaven or an afterlife. It has been decades since I stopped believing-a belief that was never more than fitful and self-serving to begin with-in the possibility of reincarnation of the soul. I’m not totally certain where I stand on the whole “soul” question. Though I certainly feel as if I possess one, I’m inclined to disbelieve in its existence. I can live with that contradiction, as with the knowledge that my time is finite, and growing shorter by the day. It’s just that lately, for the first time, that shortening has become perceptible. I can feel each tiny skyward lurch of the balloon as another bag of sand goes over the side of my basket.”
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“The day before the Queen’s Ball, Father had a visitor–a very young girl with literary aspirations, someone Lord Lytton had recommended visit Father and sent over–and while Father was explaining to her the enjoyment he was having in writing this Drood book for serialisation, this upstart of a girl had the temerity to ask, ‘But suppose you died before all the book was written?’ […] He spoke very softly in his kindest voice and said to her, ‘One can only work on, you know–work while it is day.”
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