You don't stop laughing because you grow older. You grow older because you stop laughing.
I prefer old age to the alternative.
If you wait for the perfect moment when all is safe and assured, it may never arrive. Mountains will not be climbed, races won, or lasting happiness achieved.
The French are true romantics. They feel the only difference between a man of forty and one of seventy is thirty years of experience.
A man must have his dreams - memory dreams of the past and eager dreams of the future. I never want to stop reaching for new goals.
Many a man has fallen in love with a girl in a light so dim he would not have chosen a suit by it.
Old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative.
A comfortable old age is the reward of a well-spent youth. Instead of its bringing sad and melancholy prospects of decay, it would give us hopes of eternal youth in a better world.
The older one gets the more one comes to resemble oneself.
The crime of loving is forgetting.
One does not grow old until he believes he has more to look back on than he has to look forward to.
Considering the alternative. . . it's not too bad at all.
Do not be afraid to be afraid.
Only soldiers and labouring men can appreciate how glorious it really is to lie late in bed in winter-time. When your life revolves around having to to be at work at seven o'clock in the morning you know everything about that ghastly lep up still half asleep and the rush to put your head under a tap of ice-cold water with the barbarous object of shocking yourself awake.
When you hit seventy you sleep sounder, you feel more alive than when you were thirty. Obviously it's healthier to have women on your mind than on your knees.
It is always the same: women bedeck themselves with jewels and furs, and men with wit and quotations.
Those whose approval you seek most give you the least.
Like a genial hotelier, Rolex has introduced me to some of the nicest people. I ask about their Rolex and they ask about mine. It's as marvelous a conversation piece as it is a timepiece.
An artist carries on throughout his life a mysterious, uninterrupted conversation with his public.
Inspiration comes unawares, from unaccountable sources that have nothing to do with planning or intelligence. Let it cool ever so slightly, and you are left, pen or brush in hand, with no inspiration at all. Gifted people need not, therefore, make a song and dance about being or supposing themselves superior. They simply happened to be born with that fortunate, subconscious equipment of theirs, and the mystery exists independently of intelligence or ambition.
When you have done your best with what you know how to do best - and people everywhere look at you with a friendly smile.
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