That's what happens when you're thirty-seven years old: you do the things you always did but the result is somehow different.

Mother is fading for him, her face receding into shadows, her memory diminishing with each passing day, leaking like sand from a fist.

I'm getting old, thought Eileen Calder. Old and worn out and cynical. And being cynical is a lot worse than being old or worn out.

It's paradoxical that the idea of living a long life appeals to everyone, but the idea of getting old doesn't appeal to anyone.

The years are going by us like huge birds, whom Doom and Destiny and the schemes of God have frightened up out of some old gray marsh.

Over the last few years, my comfort level with how I look has improved. My age has helped. You get used to yourself and accept yourself.

Aging and its evidence remain life's most predictable events, yet they also remain matters we prefer to leave unmentioned, unexplored.

I’m 32 years old and I’m tired. It’s because I haven’t drank enough coffee. If I had, I’d probably only be 29.

The best thing to do with a seven-year-old is wait until they’re eight to tell them to wait until they’re 18 to start living life.

It is lovely to meet an old person whose face is deeply lined, a face that has been deeply inhabited, to look in the eyes and find light there.

It is best as one grows older to strip oneself of possessions, to shed oneself downward like a tree, to be almost wholly earth before one dies.

The last 33 years of my life have been a blur, like a hummingbird’s beating wings. Time flies, but not backwards, like a hummingbird can.

Perhaps this was part of growing older, to undergo hideous alterations in the deepest certainties, in love, in lovers, finally in one's self.

Something I really enjoy about older couples is that they really have given up on getting everything right. They don't sweat the imperfections.

Folks double my age and older often run down a conversation tracking a vanishing world that will, with the passing of their memory, vanish entirely.