Though the Jazz Age continued, it became less and less an affair of youth. The sequel was like a children’s party taken over by the elders, leaving the children puzzled and rather neglected and rather taken aback.
O how blessed it would be never to marry, or grow old; but to spend one’s life innocently and indifferently among the trees and rivers which alone can keep one cool and childlike in the midst of the troubles of the world!
Youth is happy, because it has the ability to see beauty. When this ability is lost, wretched old age begins, decay, unhappiness.
The older one gets the more one feels that the present moment must be enjoyed: it is a precious gift, comparable to a state of grace.
The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them.
Of course one worries about getting older – we’re all fearful of death, let’s not kid ourselves. I’m simply not panicking as my laugh lines grow deeper. Who wants a face with no history, no sense of humor?