Quotes About Old age

Picture to yourself, oh fair young reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, religionless old woman, writhing in pain and fear, and without her wig. Picture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and pray!

Slanders, sir. For the satirical rogue says here that old men have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams—all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.

I met Tati, who advised me to save my money lest I wind up in the old actor's home, where he had just come from visiting a friend.

There's an old joke. Two elderly women are at a mountain resort. One of them says, Boy, the food at this place is really terrible. The other one says, Yeah, I know, and such small portions. Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.

Old age, especially an honored old age, has so great authority that this is of more value than all the pleasures of youth.

The harvest of old age is the recollection and abundance of blessing previously secured.

A life of peace, purity, and refinement leads to a calm and untroubled old age.

Whoever, fleeing marriage and the sorrows that women cause, does not wish to wed comes to a deadly old age.

She's an old lady," Barron says. "And she's been locked up for years. Let her have some fun. She needs to blow off steam. Seduce old dudes. Lose money at canasta.

I am an anomaly - a woman alone, too young to be widowed and too old to be looking for a mate. I occupy that no man's land - no woman's land - between youth and old age.

Children are a great comfort in your old age — and they help you reach it faster, too.

How much kinder it would have been, to turn off, like an appliance. The gradual, drawn-out corruption of the body while its host was still trapped inside was a torture of a sort they would have contrived at Guantanamo, or Bergen-Belsen. Every old age was an Edgar Allan Poe story.

To Cam surprise, she was smiling up at him steadily, her eyes midnight. His expression turned quizzical. "What's so amus­ing?" Amelia toyed with a button on his coat. "I was just thinking . . . tonight those two old hens will probably go to their beds, cold and alone." An impish grin curved her lips. "Whereas I will be with a wicked, handsome Rom who will keep me warm all night.

Noi eravamo come i cavalieri dell'antica leggenda, che veleggiavano lungo un mistico lago verso l'ignoto regno del crepuscolo, verso la sconfinata terra del tramonto. Ma non arrivammo nella terra del tramonto, andammo a finire contro il barchino da pesca sul quale stavano pescando i tre vecchi.

There had been a brittle quality to her, something unyielding, a young person who carried about her a premonition of old age.

The New Age? It's just the old age stuck in a microwave oven for fifteen seconds.

Virginity is now a mere preamble or waiting room to be got out of as soon as possible; it is without significance. Old age is similarly a waiting room, where you go after life's over and wait for cancer or a stroke. The years before and after the menstrual years are vestigial: the only meaningful condition left to women is that of fruitfulness.

There was nothing more unfair in the world than when something, be it tree or man, lived on to uselessness, to the point when it became a burden; that of the multitude of sins let loose upon the world to be prayed away and redeemed, this was the only one that was unbearable. The tree at least would fall, rot, and fertilize the earth. But man? Is he at least good for that? Then why bear old age if it brings nothing but discomfort and suffering?

The regrets of old age are polarized: you wish you had not done certain things--behaved thus, responded like that--and you wish you had seized more of the day, been greedier, packed more in.

I'm a queer crabbed old man, pent like Merlin in his tree trunk. Samolxis, the Thracian bear god, hibernating in his cave. The Last of the Seven Sleepers.

And if other old men must be willing, at the end, to push up off their deathbed and adventure out into the unknown, how much more willing must that man be whose whole life has been just such a daily exercise of adventuring, even in the stillness of his own garden? I mean, the poet.

He went to the house, he said, when the despair of old age was too much for him.

But could there be anything uglier than an old man lying the night through beside a girl put to sleep, unwaking? Had he not come to this house seeking the ultimate in the ugliness of old age?

Grant me, sound of body and of mind, to pass an old age lacking neither honor nor the lyre.