The years between thrity-five and sixty-five revolve before the passive
mind as one unexplained, cunfusing merry-go-round. True, they are a
merry-go-round of ill-gaited and wind-broken horses, painted first in
pastel colors, then in dull grays and browns, but perplexing and
intolerably dizzy the thing is, as never were the merry-go-rounds of
childhood and adolescence, as never, surely, were the certain-coursed,
dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and women these thrity years
are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life, a retreat first from a
front with many shelters, those myriad amusements and curiosities of youth,
to a line with less, when we peel down our ambitions to one ambition, our
recreations to one recreation, our friends to a few to whom we are
anaesthetic; ending up at last in a solitary, desolate strong point that is
not strong, where the shells now whistle abominably, now are but half heard
as, by turns frightened and tired, we sit waiting for death.

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