With age, I have become both more pious and more shameless.
The older we become, the more certain our future.
As an elder I mistrust the wisdom of age.
At sixty, I would like to give my future back its vistas of uncertainty.
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.
As the tenor roars his passion, I think sadly of my spreading middle, and his.
After sixty, the self-questioning of middle age is obsolete.
