Best 7157 quotes in «age quotes» category

He felt, and not for the first time today, that he had not made a good decision in his personal or professional life since 1989.

He had come to that moment in his age when there occurred to him, with increasing intensity, a question of such overwhelming simplicity that he had no means to face it. He found himself wondering if his life were worth the living; if it had ever been. It was a question, he suspected, that came to all men at one time or another; he wondered if it came to them with such impersonal force as it came to him. The question brought with it a sadness, but it was a general sadness which (he thought) had little to do with himself or with his particular fate; he was not even sure that the question sprang from the most immediate and obvious causes, from what his own life had become. It came, he believed, from the accretion of his years, from the density of accident and circumstance, and from what he had come to understand of them. He took a grim and ironic pleasure from the possibility that what little learning he had managed to acquire had led him to this knowledge: that in the long run all things, even the learning that let him know this, were futile and empty, and at last diminished into a nothingness they did not alter.

He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.

He had the beginning of wrinkles and the easy manner of one who has already made his mistakes.

He hated old women. They frightened him. There was a smell about them that gave him the willies. They were fierce and they had no price. They never gave a damn about making a scene. They got what they wanted. Louie's grandmother had been a tyrant. She had got whatever she wanted by being fierce.

He may be old now, but he is still a hero in their eyes

He really had experienced every tiniest increment of time in the four decades since then, and yet here he was surprised to be suddenly old and crippled. Turned out the rope didn't care if you noticed every daisy on the path to the gallows.

He was asking for memories, too young himself to know that memories were only memories of memories.

He was one of those who are not born handsome, but develop charming features with age by continuously engaging their brains with intelligent thoughts.

He wasn't so elderly after all, I saw: probably just a few years older than I. And yet I was never able (and am still not) to think of myself as old. I talked as if I knew I was; I bemoaned my age. But it was only for comedy, or to make other people feel young.

He was not ill-fitted to be the head and representative of a community which owed its origin and progress, and its present state of development, not to the impulses of youth, but to the stern and tempered energies of manhood and the sombre sagacity of age; accomplishing so much, precisely because it imagined and hoped so little.

He would do anything to avoid ageing and death...anything.

His age was indeterminate. But in cynicism and general world weariness, which is a sort of carbon dating of the personality, he was about seven thousand years old.

His wife killed him. Too simple. His childhood, his mother, his father, his siblings? Even if the scars of childhood heal, you never grow out of being vulnerable. Age is no shield against trauma.

How cross you are!’ marvelled Miss Thane. ‘I suppose when one reaches middle age it is difficult to sympathize with the follies of youth.’ Sir Tristram had walked over to the other side of the room to pick up his coat and hat, but this was too much for him, and he turned and said with undue emphasis: ‘It may interest you to know, ma’am, that I am one-and-thirty years old, and not yet in my dotage!’ ‘Why, of course not!’ said Miss Thane soothingly. ‘You have only entered upon what one may call the sober time of life. Let me help you to put on your coat!’ ‘Thank you,’ said Sir Tristram. ‘Perhaps you would also like to give me the support of your arm as far as to the door?

How am I still making stupid mistakes in my eighties? Whenever somebody says to me, "Maybe it'll come with age," I want to say, 'I wouldn't count on it.

How much older can you be at your age? A half minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an unhooked brassiere was as close as you ever hoped to get to Paradise. Only a fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summer vacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip! They go rocketing by so fast.

How naive and foolish the young are to imagine that they understand the loneliness of great age, the outliving of your contemporaries, anyone to whom your century of memory might make any sense.

How old would you be if you did not know your exact age?

How old are you?" "About fifteen, I think. Though I still feel the same as I always did," Bod said, but Mother Slaughter interrupted, "And I still feels like I done when I was a tiny slip of a thing, making daisy chains in the old pasture. You're always you, and that don't change, and you're always changing, and there's nothing you can do about it.

How old are you, anyway?" "How old are you?" "Seventeen." I raise a brow. "Almost. I'll be seventeen in two weeks. You?" Part of me doesn't want to tell her. She'll be horrified. But part of me wants to know what she will do when she knows the truth. "How old do you think I am?" She lifts a slender shoulder. "At first I thought maybe eighteen, but now I'm thinking at least nineteen. Maybe even twenty?" "why's that?" "You seem very ... experienced." I nod. "You're close. Today's my birthday. I'm thirteen.

How sad, however, if we're given Our youth as something to betray, And what if youth in turn is driven To cheat on us, each hour, each day, If our most precious aspirations, Our freshest dreams, imaginations In fast succession have decayed, As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade. It is too much to see before one Nothing but dinners in a row, Behind the seemly crowd to go, Regarding life as mere decorum, Having no common views to share, Nor passions that one might declare.

How can you possibly reconcile the great inequities of gender – coupled with the perversions of age and the randomness of everything?

How many years went by unnoticed, unembraced?

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

How old are you?" asks Plastic again. "That doesn't matter," says StingRay. "What matters is how much stuff I know. People who know a lot of stuff don't need birthdays.

How old you are has nothing to do with how wise, smart, or mature you've actually become.

How long you will live in your dreams? The time is now, it's better to go and follow them..

Hypocrisy is something I have learned saturates every level of our society. I see it more with my old age than I did then. At some stage I started questioning everything that I was being taught and turned against various aspects of my upbringing. Maybe I had my reasons and maybe I needed new ways to cope.

... active wisdom--an entire cohort with something new to offer to the world as years of experience combined with continuing health. [p. 52]

Age don't make you old Aunt Sara says, worries do."

HYMN OF THE DIVINE DANDELION I am born as the sun, But then turn into the moon, As my blonde hairs turn Grayish-white and fall To the ground, Only to be buried again, Then to be born again, Into a thousand suns And a thousand Moons. Suzy Kassem

I am aware I sound like a Marxist Victor Meldrew but, guess what, I'm over 50 and I don't give a fuck.

I am almost a hundred years old; waiting for the end, and thinking about the beginning. There are things I need to tell you, but would you listen if I told you how quickly time passes? I know you are unable to imagine this. Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved.

I am half child, half ancient.

I am older than your age and younger than your body.

I am old and all I have left is time. I don't mean time to live; I mean free time. Time to fill. Time to kill until time kills me. I walk and walk and think and think.

I am old now, or at least, I am no longer young, and everything I see reminds me of something else I’ve seen, such that I see nothing for the first time. A bonny girl, her hair fiery red, reminds me only of another hundred such lasses, and their mothers, and what they were as they grew, and what they looked like when they died. It is the curse of age, that all things are reflections of other things.

I am old. I should have left before. Any fool can ride the chariots of victory. It takes judgement to get off at the right time.

I am positive of only a few things in life, and one is that if you want to have a decent middle and old age, you have to get exercise almost every day.

I am quite content to be in my thirties, and nothing affirms that more than being around people in their late teens and early twenties.

I could no longer remember the way my mother's eyes looked before the slowing. Had they always been so red around the edges? Surely, those pockets of gray beneath her lower lashes were new. She still wasn't sleeping well, but perhaps what I was seeing was just age, a gradual shift that I'd failed to register. I sometimes felt the urge to study recent photographs of her in order to locate the exact point in time when she had come to look so weary.

I am thirty-five years old, and it seems to me that I have arrived at the age of grief. Others arrive there sooner. Almost no one arrives much later. I don’t think it is years themselves, or the disintegration of the body. Most of our bodies are better taken care of and better-looking than ever. What it is, is what we know, now that in spite of ourselves we have stopped to think about it. It is not only that we know that love ends, children are stolen, parents die feeling that their lives have been meaningless. It is not only that, by this time, a lot of acquaintances and friends have died and all the others are getting ready to sooner or later. It is more that the barriers between the circumstances of oneself and of the rest of the world have broken down, after all—after all that schooling, all that care. Lord, if it be thy will, let this cup pass from me. But when you are thirty-three, or thirty-five, the cup must come around, cannot pass from you, and it is the same cup of pain that every mortal drinks from. Dana cried over Mrs. Hilton. My eyes filled during the nightly news. Obviously we were grieving for ourselves, but we were also thinking that if they were feeling what we were feeling, how could they stand it? We were grieving for them, too. I understand that later you come to an age of hope, or at least resignation. I suspect it takes a long time to get there.

I didn’t know then that young girls were a sort of poison, infectious to the man of age; and that men of age justly take woman of age to cure themselves of the diseases of youth.

I'd been such an age bigot. When you get to know someone as a person, they cease being an adjective.

I didn’t know when I grew up, but it happened like this: I was so very young, and then suddenly, I was old.

I don't ask for your pity, but just for your understanding – not even that – no. Just for some recognition of me in you, and the enemy, time, in us all.

I don't act my age, I act my personality.

I don't ever want to get old. Spare me that. Have you the power? No, even you don't have the power, alas.

I don't identify with being old, I identify with being alive – which probably means I'm old.