The imaginary audience for my life is growing small and silent.
After sixty, the self-questioning of middle age is obsolete.
The older we become, the more certain our future.
With age, I have become both more pious and more shameless.
As an elder I mistrust the wisdom of age.
With decrepitude, longevity has overshot the mark.
At sixty, I would like to give my future back its vistas of uncertainty.
I am now old enough to make common cause with my predecessors against my successors.
With age, comfort becomes more seductive than beauty.
Youth demands more than ordinary life. Age clings to it.
The vices of youth now exceed my powers, but not my fancy.
As the tenor roars his passion, I think sadly of my spreading middle, and his.
With age, the mind grows slower and more wily.
The noisy vacancy of youth, the quiet vacancy of age.
The children of childish parents age quickly.
Growth provides novel experiences for youth; decay the same, alas, for age.
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