Wisdom has lost repute because it so often applies to a state of affairs that no longer exists.
Wisdom knows when to return death's embrace.
My mentors grow old and foolish. I am afraid.
The interest in Wisdom is fading. Soon there will not be enough left to support the aphorism, even though it tries to amuse by half-mocking the Wisdom it propounds.
I like the old wisdom--puns, riddles, spells, proverbs.
Intelligence complicates. Wisdom simplifies.
At sixty, I would like to give my future back its vistas of uncertainty.
With age, comfort becomes more seductive than beauty.
The vices of youth now exceed my powers, but not my fancy.
With age, the mind grows slower and more wily.
The imaginary audience for my life is growing small and silent.
With decrepitude, longevity has overshot the mark.
I am now old enough to make common cause with my predecessors against my successors.
Youth demands more than ordinary life. Age clings to it.
As the tenor roars his passion, I think sadly of my spreading middle, and his.
Growth provides novel experiences for youth; decay the same, alas, for age.
After sixty, the self-questioning of middle age is obsolete.
Prudence suspects that happiness is a bait set by risk.
The supposed unhappiness of the rich is always a cheerful topic of conversation.
Life is the risk we cannot refuse.
My mind no longer has romantic abysses, but has become shallow, with many little gaps and cracks.
The intimacy of love absolves us of our guilty separateness.
When my expectations are exactly fulfilled, I feel that something uncanny has happened.
I regret. I apologize. I blame myself. I continue as before.
Most self-laceration is more noisy than painful.
