Molly Crabapple Quotes

It's not the years honey, it's the mileage.

I've got everything I had 20 years ago, except now it's all lower.

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

People are just like farm equipment. They rust out quicker than they wear out.

Whatever debases the intelligence degrades the entire human being.

Perhaps the next and the next will inherit his virtues but in time the worst will take over.

Life is no longer a contest of great minds for great ends, but a pot house squabble.

I wouldn't be back in my 20s for anything.

I feel a lot older than I am.

There are souls which, crab-like, crawl continually toward darkness, going back in life rather than advancing in it, using what experience they have to increase their deformity, growing worse without ceasing, and becoming steeped more and more thoroughly in an intensifying wickedness.

A new oath holds pretty well; but... when it is become old, and frayed out, and damaged by a dozen annual retryings of its remains, it ceases to be serviceable; any little strain will snap it.

To see the years touch ye gives me joy", he whispered, "for it means that ye live.

Years have passed and how I am anxiously watching the twilight of my childhood, quietly sinking, never to rise again.

As you get older, you see how rapidly the years and decades fly by, so I would encourage anyone, no matter the age, to seize their life and be fully present.

Years do not always make age.

Just because the years are passing doesn't mean that the quality of our lives must automatically go downhill.

To become young again would seem to me an appalling prospect. Youth is a kind of delirium, which can be cured, if it is ever cured at all, by years of painful treatment.

Young people, take heart: the older you get, the fewer commandments you will have the strength to break.

In many ways, Im younger than I was 20 years ago.

As we get older we do not get any younger. Seasons return, and today I am fifty-five, And this time last year I was fifty-four, And this time next year I shall be sixty-two.

In a year's time, he's a year older.

But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long.

The years, the months, the days, and the hours have flown by my open window. Here and there an incident, a towering moment, a naked memory, an etched countenance, a whisper in the dark, a golden glow these and much more are the woven fabric of the time I have lived.

I used to think the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time. But it's not like that. It happens overnight.