My platitudes don't hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik — that's all ancient history now. But 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.

Honey, I plan to marry you the moment the ink is dry on that death certificate.

Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?

... a gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.--There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.

Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.

I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.

It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here