There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.
When I was a child, I loved old people. My New Hampshire grandfather was my model human being.
Everybody hates a prodigy, detests an old head on young shoulders.
There is something to that old saying that hate injures the hater, not the hated.
I moved up over Lower East Side and I was adopted by eight foster parents; I lived all over New York City with these parents, man, till I was about ten years old.
No one longs to live more than someone growing old.
Man is not logical and his intellectual history is a record of mental reserves and compromises. He hangs on to what he can in his old beliefs even when he is compelled to surrender their logical basis.
I’m grateful to intelligent people. That doesn’t mean educated. That doesn’t mean intellectual. I mean really intelligent. What black old people used to call ‘mother wit’ means intelligence that you had in your mother’s womb. That’s what you rely on. You know what’s right to do.
I’m not the first person to have discovered evidence that consciousness exists beyond the body. Brief, wonderful glimpses of this realm are as old as human history.
Young men think old men are fools; but old men know young men are fools.