A young man without ambition is an old man waiting to be.

The man who is too old to learn was probably always too old to learn.

Young men think old men are fools; but old men know young men are fools.

Young men think old men are fools; but old men know young men are fools.

The young man who has not wept is a savage, and the old man who will not laugh is a fool.

He is young but he thinks old.

A man cannot become a child again, or he becomes childish.

Old men tend to forget what thought was like in their youth; they forget the quickness of the mental jump, the daring of the youthful intuition, the agility of the fresh insight. They become accustomed to the more plodding varieties of reason, and because this is more than made up by the accumulation of experience, old men think themselves wiser than the young.

Young men can be impetuous, young men can be rush, young men can be fools, but the Car'a'carn cannot let himself be a young man.

Youth can not know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.

Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret.

No, that is the great fallacy: the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.

As a man grows older the memory of his youth begins to act as nothing less than an immunization against further experience. And he was thirty-eight. It was an age when one felt strangely unready to say that one had lived and yet reluctant to acknowledge the death of youth. An age when the savor of one’s experiences turned ever so slightly sour, and when, day by day, one took less pleasure in new things. An age when the charm of every diverting foolishness quickly faded.

Young he was not, so that one had to call him old, but the word did not suit him.