Quotes About Aging

Old age, believe me, is a good and pleasant thing. It is true you are gently shouldered off the stage, but then you are given such a comfortable front stall as spectator.

There are three things to beware of through life: when a man is young, let him beware of his appetites; when he is middle-aged, of his passions; and when old, of covetousness, especially.

They had been married for almost forty years and grown old together in what he called the 'gentle harness'. It was a phrase he had used many times to amuse her, one of many he would utter just to see her smile. The humour may have been lost over the years, but the memory of it and the affection remained.

It's going to be like this from now on...The longer we live, the more of our friends we'll lose.

Meditation also appears to slow age-related degeneration in our brains. Neurologist Eileen Luders at UCLA looked at the link between age and the volume of the brain's white matter, which typically shrinks with age. She reported that this decrease was less prominent in meditators as compared to non-meditators. On average, the brains of long-term practitioners appeared to be seven and a half years younger at the age of fifty than the brains of non-meditators.

And this is what I mean by "aging from the inside out." If we merely move around our internal furniture, redesigning our roles and maintaining high gear, we do not see through the ego's charade. Instead, we permit it to continue its endless efforts at control. And this does not carry us deeper into our spiritual center, beyond ego.

When we are no longer children we are already dead.

Old Men's Souls Within their ancient, decrepit bodies the souls of old men wallow. Poor things, so full of sorrow: how bored with the wretched life they bear, yet how they cherish it and how they fear its loss, these contrary and befuddled souls, tragicomically huddled inside their ancient, desiccated hides.

Inside every old person is a younger person wondering "What the hell happened?"

Alberta felt her face grow old and shrivelled at her own words. She was a shadow already, half old, distressing, comic. Something happened from year to year, suspicion became knowledge, bad dreams reality. A weariness crept over her, more intense and pervasive than any she had known before. It sat in her back, sapping her strength. She sank down into it as if it were an abyss, sank inwards into gaping emptiness.

You know that unkindness just makes you get old before your time." "That's true," Dad calls from the living room. "Rots your bones and makes you constipated! Look at your Aunt June!

I admire and respect those unique and positive individuals who can "age without aging." The number of times a heart beats is not as important as its tempo and rhythm.

Old people really do have a secret though. You wanna know what it is? Luck.

One of the interesting quirks of the aging process is that events that seem to have little or no impact at the time resonate with a thunderous importance later on, like an expertly constructed detective novel.

We live as emotional transients in a world of isolation. Oh, if I could only borrow back so many wasted moments, but only the arrogant have no regrets; so much is paid for with borrowed time. The infant road, the child's path, in the rising tide of the day, is the aged road the dying path, in the dusk where mortals play.

The older I get, the more I think I look like a Muppet. Cady vehemently disagrees with this assessment, but she's fighting her own battle with this particular gene puddle.

When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground." "Voltaire?" I shook my head. "An old African proverb.

When Julia was twenty-nine, her hair was already bar-coded. Now, at sixty-two, it was a solid helmet of bright pewter, level with her lean, brown jawbone.

I forgot what it felt like to be young

As Picasso said with his typical oxymoronic wit, "It takes a very long time to become young.

Cheese, wine, and a friend must be old to be good.

After a certain number of years, our faces become our biographies.

This I wanted and nothing more. In my old age like old Goethe to stand before the face of the earth, and recognize it and reconcile it with my work built up, a forest citadel on a river of changeable lights and brief shadows.

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year, I felt a door opening in me and I entered the clarity of early morning. One after another my former lives were departing, like ships, together with their sorrow. And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas assigned to my brush came closer, ready now to be described better than they were before.