To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.
How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.
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