Quotes About Aging

The old age of lower mammals presents characters similar to those found in man.

As you get older, you develop your style. For me, the simpler, the better.

As I've gotten older, I've gotten simpler - my level of aspiration has actually gone down and down. But my level of impact has gone up and up.

In my own life, as the nearer I get to the end of life on this earth, the simpler I want to become.

The older I get, the more I desire simplicity.

I find that as you get older, you start to simplify things in general.

It seems there is an ideal degree of aging which is admired. Things should not be new, but neither should they be rotten with age (except in New Orleans, which fosters a cult of decay).

The one garment in the world with the greatest and longest popularity—over a century now—is Levi's denim blue jeans. Along with their practical durability, they show age honestly and elegantly, as successive washings fade and shrink them to perfect fit and rich texture. Ingenious techniques to simulate aging of denim come and go, but the basic indigo 501s, copper-riveted, carry on for decades. This is highly evolved design. Are there blue-jeans buildings among us?

while she discounted his adoration of her beauty—based, as it was, on a much younger woman—she also relied on it, and as time passed she was grateful for the restorative powers of his memory. No one else saw her the way he did. He knew the eighteenyear-old lifeguard she used to be, and the fashionable grad student, the coltish young mother.

crayon. Age had given his face a softly

Get old, you might as well not worry about your dignity. Anybody talks about dignity for old folks has never been around one as far as I can tell. You can keep your spunk, but you have to give up your vanity early on.

Maybe life is just a straight shot from the horrors of grade school to the horrors of the nursing home.

I've since come to realize how widely the aging process varies.

He was sitting with his feet up on the desk, his face oily-looking under the fluorescent lights. He must have been in his late thirties, but he wasn't aging well. Some combination of temper and discontent had etched lines near his mouth and spoiled the clear brown of his eyes, leaving an impression of a man beleaguered by the Fates. His

She was almond-buttery with sweat and sun, her face corrugated with a thousand caramel wrinkles and her hair flour dusted, but the rest of her seemed decades younger.

Finally, I began to write about becoming an older woman and the trepidation it stirred. The small, telling betrayals of my body. The stalled, eerie stillness in my writing, accompanied by an ache for some unlived destiny. I wrote about the raw, unsettled feelings coursing through me, the need to divest and relocate, the urge to radically simplify and distill life into a new, unknown meaning.

can't explain this to myself. I only feel in intuitive, indeterminate ways that she will have a part in whatever renaissance might lie in my aging, perhaps opening me to the deeper

He'd cradled his grief almost to the point of loving it. For so long he'd refused to give it up, because leaving it behind was like leaving her. Sometimes he couldn't fathom why he'd thrown in his lot with these aging men.

Simone de Beauvoir was of the opinion that if, at menopause, a woman gives her "consent" to growing older, she is changed into a "different being," one who is more herself, one who is complete.

For in the sequel to Gilead (which is really a prequel), later-life lovers must contend with the aftershocks of trauma. Love that arrives late can come after great pain, as Shakespeare knew. Yet that pain may not arrest or numb but burn or blister a later-life lover, making her wince at the touch of the hand she wants to hold. Our

We have a friend, and Anglophile American city-dweller in his eighties, whose main ambition, now, is to hear a cuckoo call, for he never has, and perhaps he never will, for he is rather deaf. But, if he came and sat under the magic apple tree for an afternoon in May, it would be quiet enough, and then he might listen to the cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo until he had his fill.

He was funny and charming, but also kind. It seemed the older she got, the more she appreciated kindness in people.

For many of them, turning eighteen meant aging out of the foster-care system. They could find themselves with nowhere to live and no support system.

For many listeners, the exciting new music we discovered when we were young becomes the reliable playlist we stick with in middle age.