Oh, dear, this living and eating and growing old; these doubts and aches in the back, and want of interest in Nightingales and Roses . . . [and]
Growing old is no gradual decline, but a series of tumbles, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another. Yet when we pick ourselves up we find that our bones are not broken; while not unpleasing is the new terrace which lies unexplored before us.