It may be that I'd like to
But I won't fall in love with you
We won't spend the rest of our lives together
But anyway couldn't we go on a trip together

We could go to the British Islands
And hike around the Scottish Highlands
The youth hostels they have there
would be perfect for us
Cause we're both youths,
so they would really suit us

Well darling each morning when we woke up
We'd have biscuits and tea from a tea cup
People might think that we were on our honeymoon
But we'd know better, even though we'd slept in the same room

We would live right out of our back packs
We'd send our parents lots of trinkets and knickkacks
Through the post and across the sea
Back to our own country

After that we could go to Yugoslavia
Oh how I'd love to travel with ya'
We don't have to be wife and husband
To take a trip across the ocean

If the composition of the body changes every seven years, the composition of our minds during the seven years changed, so that though our thoughts looked the same to us, inside we had been altered, like an old car which has had part after part replaced in it under the hood.

I suppose everyone continues to be interested in the quest for the self, but what you feel when you’re older, I think, is that — how to express this — you really must make the self. It’s absolutely useless to look for it, you won’t find it, but it’s possible in some sense to make it.

One can foresee the consequences of a revolution or a war, but it is impossible to foresee the consequences of an autumn shooting-trip for wild ducks.

Then and Now

 Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest
But they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree

When the autumn wind blows
They're already gone
They flutter to the ground
Cause they can't hang on
There's nothing in the world
That I ain't seen
I greet all the new ones that are coming in green

They say I got staying power
Here on the tree
But I've been here since Eisenhower
And I've out lived even he

I fight off the snow
I fight off the hail
Nothing makes me go
I'm like some vestigial tail
I'll be here through eternity
If you want to know how long
If they cut down this tree
I'll show up in a song

I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest but they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree

Jain ascetics to Alexander the Great

Every man can possess only so much of the earth's surface as we are standing on. You are but human like the rest of us, save that you are always busy and up to no good, travelling so many miles from your home, a nuisance to yourself and to others. You will soon be dead, and then you will own just as much of the earth as will suffice to bury you.

The long-liver has triumphed over at least one of man’s initial handicaps: the brevity of life. To filch twenty years from eternal annihilation is to impose one’s superiority on an allotted programme. So small is the scale upon which we arrange our values.