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After sixty, the self-questioning of middle age is obsolete.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.
Show enough regret, and your refusal will inspire gratitude.
I read here and there in books, enjoying the examples and ignoring the argument.
If you insist on asking me why I feel the way I do, I plan to take the Fifth Amendment.
Outside literature, high-flown sentiments are merely exasperating.
Under attack, sentiments harden into dogma.
No need to be sentimental to mourn the loss of Paradise.
Cheap thrill: moral outrage revels in its own innocence and in the guilt of the wicked Others.
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