370 Aging Quotes

I have always had plenty of friends, and now at age sixty, I face four walls as a common prisoner.

I think that's what makes life interesting - the evolution of getting older, and it's kinda fascinating to me, the whole process.

The deep, personal material of the latter half of your life is your children. You can write about your parents when they're gone, but your children are still going to be here, and you're going to want them to come and visit you in the nursing home.

It may almost be a question whether such wisdom as many of us have in our mature years has not come from the dying out of the power of temptation, rather than as the results of thought and resolution.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see Youth goes, alack, and with it glee, A boy the old man ne'er can be; Maternal thirty scarce can find The sweet sixteen long left behind.

This is serious: some of the things that are supposed to last the rest of my life are already wearing out.

I don't think of myself as a character actress - that's become a phrase which means you've had it.

Men become much more attractive when they start looking older. But it doesn't do much for women, though we do have an advantage: make-up.

I'm so old they've cancelled my blood type.

Middle age is when your age starts to show around your middle.

Every man has to settle down eventually. You know why you gotta settle down eventually? Because you don't want to be the old guy in the club. You know what I'm talking about. Every club you go into, there's always some old guy. He ain't really old, just a little too old to be in the club.

Men don't get smarter when they grow older. They just lose their hair.

What I look forward to is continued immaturity followed by death.

I now realize that the small hills you see on ski slopes are formed around the bodies of forty-seven-year-olds who tried to learn snowboarding.

The infant runs toward it with its eyes closed, the adult is stationary, the old man approaches it with his back turned.

Middle age is the time when a man is always thinking that in a week or two he will feel as good as ever.

The great secret that all old people share is that you really haven't changed in seventy or eighty years. Your body changes, but you don't change at all. And that, of course, causes great confusion.

For the last third of life there remains only work. It alone is always stimulating, rejuvenating, exciting and satisfying.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

Like our shadows, Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-seven now, and we don't know where the hell she is.

Old age equalizes - we are aware that what is happening to us has happened to untold numbers from the beginning of time. When we are young we act as if we were the first young people in the world.

There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.

When you look like your passport photo, it's time to go home.

I have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets; I shall live long.

Wives are young men's mistresses, companions for middle age, and old men's nurses.

The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.

Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.

Every man over forty is a scoundrel.

One great thing about getting old is that you can get out of all sorts of social obligations just by saying you're too tired.

It kills me to be time's eunuch and never to beget.

One does not get better but different and older and that is always a pleasure.

Nothing makes one old so quickly as the ever-present thought that one is growing older.

There was more of a flow to my output of writing in the past, certainly. Having no contemporaries left means you cannot say, 'Well, so-and-so will like this,' which you do when you're younger. You realize there is no so-and-so anymore. You are your own so-and-so. There is a bleak side to it.

At a certain age, you have to live near good medical care - if, that is, you're going to continue. You always have the option of not continuing, which, I fear, is sometimes nobler.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun - for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax - This won't hurt.

As life runs on, the road grows strange With faces new, and near the end The milestones into headstones change, 'Neath every one a friend.

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

I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more - the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort - to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires - and expires, too soon - too soon before life itself.

We used to say 'Ah Hell, we're young' But now we see that life is sad And so is love.

Here was what Kilgore Trout cried out to me in my father's voice: 'Make me young, make me young, make me young!'

It was still only nine o'clock when I set off on the last leg of my journey, feeling old and dirty and incapable. You probably know the feeling if you are over eighteen.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of Love are gone; The worm - the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

Beauty's of a fading nature Has a season and is gone!

I'm taking Viagra and drinking prune juice- I don't know if I'm coming or going.

We are no longer the same, you wiser but not sadder, and I sadder but not wiser, for wiser I could hardly become without grave personal inconvenience, whereas sorrow is a thing you can keep adding to all your life long, is it not, like a stamp or an egg collection, without feeling very much the worse for it, is it not.

At sixty I look back on a life of deep disappointments, of withered hopes, of unlooked for suffering, of severe discipline.

The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying.

What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.

'I was dreaming [...] about my grandfather. A very old man, at least as old as I am now, 91. I thought, when I was a boy, that he had been 91 all his life. Now I feel as if I have been 91 all my life.'

The years like great black oxen tread the world, And God the herdsman goads them on behind, And I am broken by their passing feet.

Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; Now I may wither into the truth.

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees -Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.

Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave.

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me - That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads - you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are - One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I'm getting a wrinkle above my eyebrow and I love that you know.

That judges of important causes should hold office for life is a disputable thing, for the mind grows old as well as the body.

It's odd but even when I was a kid, I would write about 'old and other times' as though I had a lot of years behind me. Now I do, so there is a difference in the weight of memory. When you're young, you're still 'becoming', now at my age I am more concerned with 'being'. And not too long from now I'll be driven by 'surviving', I'm sure. I kind of miss that 'becoming' stage, as most times you really don't know what's around the corner. Now, of course, I've kind of knocked on the door and heard a muffled answer. Nevertheless, I still don't know what the voice is saying, or even what language it's in.

Age wins and one must learn to grow old. I must learn to walk this long unlovely wintry way, looking for spectacles, shunning the cruel looking-glass, laughing at my clumsiness before others mistakenly condole, not expecting gallantry yet disappointed to receive none, apprehending every ache of shaft of pain, alive to blinding flashes of mortality, unarmed, totally vulnerable.

While man is growing, life is in decrease; And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb. Our birth is nothing but our death begun.

One of the blessings of age is to learn not to part on a note of sharpness, to treasure the moments spent with those we love, and to make them whenever possible good to remember, for time is short. (5 February 1943)

Time has touched me gently in his race, And left no odious furrows in my face.

Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for, I have grown not only gray, but almost blind in the service of my country.

Every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more, that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome. Satisfied, that, if any circumstances have given peculiar value to my services, they were temporary, I have the consolation to believe, that, while choice and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism does not forbid it.

Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, not spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you will weep and know why.

If wrinkles must be written upon our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should not grow old.

It is better to be An old man's darling than a young man's warling.

It can never be again! Everyone always talks about a good thing coming to an end, as if life was over. But I'll be 40 when this interview comes out. Paul is 38. Elton John, Bob Dylan - we're all relatively young people. The game isn't over yet. Everyone talks in terms of the last record or the last Beatle concert - but, God willing, there are another 40 years of productivity to go. I'm not judging whether 'I Am The Walrus' is better or worse than 'Imagine.' It is for others to judge. I am doing it. I do. I don't stand back and judge - I do.

My Mama always said she wanted her roses while she was living... not after she was gone. That's why everyone should always honour their mother and father. No matter how much you may disagree with their beliefs, those that have lived longer than us always have something to teach us, that we can take with us for the rest of our lives.

And the seasons they go round and round, And the painted ponies go up and down, We're all captive on the carousel of time We can't return we can only look behind From where we came And go 'round and 'round and 'round In the circle game.

The denunciation of the young is a necessary part of the hygiene of older people, and greatly assists in the circulation of their blood.

One of the few graces of getting old - and God knows there are few graces - is that if you've worked hard and kept your nose to the grindstone, something happens: The body gets old but the creative mechanism is refreshed, smoothed and oiled and honed. That is the grace. That is the splendid grace. And I think that is what's happening to me.

'I used to get the girl; now I get the part. In 'The Quiet American' you may have noticed I got the part and the girl. It's a milestone for me, because it's the last time I'm going to get the girl. I'm sure of it, now I'm nearly 70.'

Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone? Tell me, who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?

I may have done some other things as good but I am sure none better. I haven't matured, progressed, grown, become deeper, wiser, or funnier. But then, I never thought I would.

Krapp: Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn't want them back.

'Enlarge my life with multitude of days!' In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays: Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know That life protracted is protracted woe.

If a man does not make new acquaintance as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone. A man, Sir, should keep his friendship in a constant repair.

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

People can be lovers and enemies at the same time, you know. We were... A man and woman draw apart from that long embrace, and see what they have done to each other... In age we lose everything; even the power to love.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age bring the red flare again.

One that is ever kind said yesterday: 'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise Though now it seems impossible, and so All that you need is patience.' Heart cries, 'No, I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain. Time can but make her beauty over again: Because of that great nobleness of hers The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs, Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze.' O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.

While I, that reed-throated whisperer Who comes at need, although not now as once A clear articulation in the air, But inwardly, surmise companions Beyond the fling of the dull ass's hoof -Ben Jonson's phrase-and find when June is come At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof A sterner conscience and a friendlier home, I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs, Those undreamt accidents that have made me -Seeing that Fame has perished that long while, Being but a part of ancient ceremony- Notorious, till all my priceless things Are but a post the passing dogs defile.

Speech after long silence; it is right, All other lovers being estranged or dead, Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade, The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night, That we descant and yet again descant Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song: Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young We loved each other and were ignorant.

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war? Think of ancestral night that can, If but imagination scorn the earth And intellect is wandering To this and that and t'other thing, Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

I pray-for word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time; And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.