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Where does this fear come from, of all things not fear of armor, civil war in the Third World or hunger, but fear of getting old.

I remember the year I became 44, every day I thought that I had become 44 years, almost like a pastiche of Montague's practice of learning to die ("Philosophy is learning to die") as more of an endeavor to overcome fear, by seeing death everywhere; I reminded myself of being 44 years, to try to remember how fast a year goes, or how slow, and not to think about dying, as I do every day, but to remember that I was that year 44 years, and it was in 1996.

opening of the annual meetings of the Norwegian Writers' Association begins with the rapture of dead members, then a minute's silence to honor our dead colleagues, and I always find that time is running very slowly, and I hear those coughing and standing up, just like me, and then it is strange that a mouthful is just the violent time of the moment, when this one minute snails away, and who is the time goes by for, it never says children, it is the adults who say it, and often those who have come the age and age of shells, and the addition is that time is only getting faster and faster.

How many of my ages sitting in my body, and I remember all the previous ages and their different styles, or the feeling of the different ages from when I was a child, schoolchildren, youth, half-grown on the way to growing up, as a twenty year old, thirty year old, forty and up to the age I am now, or have they faded away like blank pages in memory, if not, where do they sit; in the hands, in the arms or simply in the face, or what about the islands, which do not carry as much mark, only that which is around the islands, of aging – or, as with Falstaff, in the pommel?
My mother-in-law, who is now 92 years old, says she feels like an 18-year-old; where, I ask, and she says it sits in her head, not in her body, because it is characterized by her 92 years, but no more than other 92-year-olds, because she is crisp and clear in her head, although she has problems with the sight; so maybe our other ages are in our heads.

Could I feel reach me to my various ages, if they are still sitting in the body, as weak echoes of who I once was, or are they exploited, like the different ages are blown away, if not, how would I manage to lure them out, which whether they die in me, all the way back to when I was ten, and the rest of my life, if Sigurd Hoel is right, is just a rehearsal, all the while it's the first ten years where everything is new, like being 13 years, which I can always remember, was boring and just a sad routine, almost like an overused habit.

To a pressing question of whether nothing rests, Zenon replied: Yes, the flying arrow rests.

I study my hands and think how many ages there are in them; I've inherited my father's hands, how much of him is in my hands, and he ever thought of his many ages, he became an old man, almost 90 years, like his father again, and it's always nice to see photographs of my father as a young man; 30 years old, after the war, completely different to me, as I inherited my mother's complexion and her dark eyes.

In his diary Kafka writes that he is too weak to have a large body, and has too long legs, as the blood must reach past his knees and all the way down to his toes; he is uneasy about his body and the diary is written between 1909 to 1923; he dies in 1924; on November 17, 1921, he writes: "There may be a purpose behind the fact that I have learned nothing useful and let the body decay – these two things are interconnected. I do not want to be distracted, not distracted by a useful and healthy man's joy of life. As if sickness and despair would not distract at least as much. "
He is about to turn 40 and die at age 41, from tuberculosis in his throat, or as Walter Benjamin writes in his essay on Kafka: “But when the most forgotten of all strangers is our body – our own body – then one understands why Kafka called the cough that broke out of his mind for the 'beast'. It was the big deer's most advanced outpost "; on the way to being 41 years old and severely affected by illness, and stranger, as it stands, to his own body, and thus his age or his body age, and in response to his turmoil, I think, albeit many years before he dies, he writes a beautiful aphorism, almost close to a Zen Buddhist koan, December 17, 1910: "On an urgent question of whether nothing rests, Zenon answered from Elea: Yes, the flying arrow rests."
In his book Old Age, Simone de Beauvoir writes that Trotsky, so obsessed with working, dreaded growing old: “He anxiously remembered Turgénev's words, which Lenin often quoted: 'Do you know what is the greatest sin? To be more than 55 years. ' And just when he was 55, in 1933, he complained in a letter to his wife about fatigue, insomnia and poor memory »; then Lenin was dead, lying on the parade, like a wax doll behind thick glass, perhaps burnt out and tired of having revolutionized a poor peasant society, surrounded by terrified complainers; Lenin died in 1924, aged 53, that is, two years before he would have turned 55, so he did not have to commit the greatest sin.
Simone de Beauvoir also quotes Goethe: "Age takes us by surprise" and she quotes herself: "Even when I was 40, I was standing in disbelief in front of the mirror. . .

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