F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotes

You know, let a few years go by until I hit my midlife crisis. Then that can be documented on film.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

The middle years of life come on like thunder.

Approaching forty, I had a singular dream in which I almost grasped the meaning and understood the nature of what it is that wastes in wasted time.

A year ago, I turned the final page of The Book of the Dead. I don't feel young any more.

When I was turning 40, I felt that there were no books out there that hit the spot in terms of what I wanted to read.

Few women, I fear, have had such reason as I have to think the long sad years of youth were worth living for the sake of middle age.

I think I had a kind of pause for insight in my 20s when I wasn't in a relationship and my career wasn't going the way I wanted it to go. I had time for reflection then.

Approaching 50, I am living a life that is less sunlit Waldman/Chabon than tattered Charles Bukowski.

You know, you get to a certain age, 45, 50, I don't know when it happens, I said, 'Jesus, all I got is a certain amount of time. Maybe I should think about using it a little better.'

Turning 60 was not a happy time. I didn't think 'I'm falling apart,' but I did re-examine my priorities.

I don't write so much now. I'm getting on 33, pot belly and creeping dementia.

When you hit your 40s, you're walking around, and you realize, 'Oh, my God, men don't look at me anymore.' Or sometimes you can feel really good, and then you look in the mirror, and you're like, 'Oh, Jesus, that's my face now!' But I have tell you that something happened and shifted inside of me.

Having a collection of regrets when you hit your 40s is part of the deal.

I feel like I've lived two or three completely different lives. At 33, I'm quite reflective and have the perspective you get in your old age when you have been through the losses of life.

I think there is something very relatable in the idea that you hit a certain age, later in your life, where you realize you have to pick up the rug and see what's underneath it and deal with stuff.

I was 45 when I wrote most of this book [Hungry Heart ], at what felt like a halfway point in my life, and I thought, If I can't be honest now, when will it happen? It was so hard to step away from the [protection of] fiction, but I'm ready to talk start telling their truth.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

Inside every seventy-year-old is a thirty-five-year-old asking, 'What happened?

In the whole of your absurd past you discover so much that's absurd, so much deceit and credulity, that it might be a good idea to stop being young this minute, to wait for youth to break away from you and pass you by, to watch it going away, receding in the distance, to see all its vanity, run your hand through the empty space it has left behind, take a last look at it, and then start moving, make sure your youth has really gone, and then calmly, all by yourself, cross to the other side of Time to see what people and things really look like.

It's okay to grow up, it's just slowing down that's the scary part. Running out of time. It's okay to grow up, but it doesn't mean you have to become like your parents.

it is in middle age that the interest of a life attains its highest point.

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself. From within, I couldn't decide what to do. Unable to see, I heard my name being called. Then I walked outside.

Anyway, now she thinks of Estha and Rahel as Them, because, separately, the two of them are no longer what They were or ever thought They would be. Ever. Their lives have a size and a shape now. Estha has his and Rahel hers. Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons. Short creatures with long shadows, patrolling the Blurry End. Gentle half-moons have gathered under their eyes and they are as old as Ammu was when she died.

What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.