Some say that the age of chivalry is past, that the spirit of romance is dead. The age of chivalry is never past, so long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth.
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.
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew
I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more...
Old age is not as honorable as death, but most people seek it.
When the last autumn of Dickens's life was over, he continued to work through his final winter and into spring. This is how all of us writers give away the days and years and decades of our lives in exchange for stacks of paper with scratches and squiggles on them. And when Death calls, how many of us would trade all those pages, all that squandered lifetime-worth of painfully achieved scratches and squiggles, for just one more day, one more fully lived and experienced day? And what price would we writers pay for that one extra day spent with those we ignored while we were locked away scratching and squiggling in our arrogant years of solipsistic isolation? Would we trade all those pages for a single hour? Or all of our books for one real minute?
Hell, I don't want to grow old at all. I never want to die.
One wants to live, of course, indeed one only stays alive by virtue of the fear of death, but I think, as I thought then, that it is better to die violently and not too old.
We're so old that the winds of age echo along our ribs and pick at our eye sockets. We could be gone tomorrow. A chill, say, or a little slip on the cliff side. I feel as fragile as a dried flower. I rattle a little in the moving air, but I'm only coherent dust-a shape of what once was. My essence is going.
The day before the Queen's Ball, Father had a visitor--a very young girl with literary aspirations, someone Lord Lytton had recommended visit Father and sent over–and while Father was explaining to her the enjoyment he was having in writing this Drood book for serialisation, this upstart of a girl had the temerity to ask, 'But suppose you died before all the book was written?' [...] He spoke very softly in his kindest voice and said to her, 'One can only work on, you know--work while it is day.
Life versus Death becomes, as Montaigne pointed out, Old Age versus Death.
Age does not make us childish, as some say; it finds us true children.
If you're not getting happier as you get older, then you're fuckin' up
Tous mes anciens amours vont me revenir.' - All my old loves will be returned to me
Thank goodness for the first snow, it was a reminder--no matter how old you became and how much you'd seen, things could still be new if you were willing to believe they still mattered.
when you live forever and don't age, it gives you time to hope
After staring at the ceiling for more than an hour, I was finally asleep, but I wasn’t in my dream. I was walking and walking beside a small stream, and only stopped as I saw a big rounded tree. What made me stop was that the tree had leaves the size of a palm. Bigger then any size I had seen in my life. I stepped under its shade looking closer at the magical tree and found that my name was carved at its big trunk. I was still surprised and bewildered at my finding when I felt the tree shake and a leaf fell in front of me. I was about to pick it up when more and more leaves started to fall, Leaving the tree with only half of the leaves. I tried my best to stop my tree from shaking when I woke up from my dream. I was breathing heavily. My heart was beating fast. I was soaked. “My life, The leaves are falling one by one from my life.” I said to myself, as I closed my eyes hoping for my life to find spring again.
Sorry. I get attacks of quotitis every once in a while. It's a very rare disease with no cure. It usually attacks older people, and here i am afflicted with it at my tender age.
I don't see,' I said, 'how people stand being old. Your insides all dry up. When you're young you're so self-reliant. You don't even need much religion.
That's one of the things we learn as we grow older -- how to forgive. It comes easier at forty than it did at twenty.
