I liked this detail from Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries’s address to the House yesterday, as he moved through a catalogue of American lives: “We are young. We are older.” “Older” — not “old.”
Anyone who doubts that music is “the quickening art,” as Oliver Sacks, borrowing from Kant, put it, would do well to watch last night’s 60 Minutes story about Tony Bennett, “The Final Act.”
”George Martin was like our teacher, just because of the age. He was a little bit older. It wasn’t much. I mean, I think we always thought of him as an old man. I think he was like probably thirty when he started with us, which I certainly don’t think of as old now.”
From The New Yorker, in a film review by Anthony Lane: “one of the rare benefits of age: maybe you can start, at last, to tell the difference between a life style and a life.”
In The New York Times, the author of the novel The World of Henry Orient writes about falling in love at the age of seventy-one with an eighty-three-year-old man.
If you were born before the year 2000: add the last two digits of the year of your birth and the age you will be on this year’s birthday. The answer will be 111. Pretty mysterious? Not really.
“I’m not ashamed to tell anybody my age: I am seventy-five years — not old, but seventy-five years young, because I have most of the attributes that young men should have.”