As I've Gotten Older Quotes

Maybe this is just me, because my priorities have changed as I’ve gotten older. But now I don’t want to be ‘sort of dating’ someone. I don’t want to be ‘kinda hanging out’ with someone. I don’t want to spend a lot of energy suppressing all my feelings so I appear uninvolved. I want to be involved.

And as I've gotten older, I've had more of a tendency to look for people who live by kindness, tolerance, compassion, a gentler way of looking at things." ~ Martin Scorsese

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve learned that I have to open myself up to all opportunities. Maybe I’ll get burned and not meet the right people, but I won’t know until I do it.

This is what I've found about life, as I've gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It's not that there is ever a shortage of people - oh, heavens no. It is merely that - as the years pass - there comes to be a shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history. Those people start to be plucked away by death, and they are awfully hard to replace after they go.

As I've gotten older, I have taught myself to act "normal." I can do it well enough to fool the average person for a whole evening, maybe longer. But it all falls apart if I hear something that elicits a strong emotional reaction from me that is different from what people expect. In an instant, in their eyes, I turn into the sociopathic killer I was believed to be forty years ago.

As I've gotten older, I realize I'm certain of only two things. Days that begin with rowing on a lake are better than days that do not. Second, a man's character is his fate. And as a student of history, I find this hard to refute. For most of us our stories can be written long before we die. There are exceptions among the great men of history, but they are rare..

I've always been rather very one-sided about the science, and when I was younger, I concentrated almost all my effort on it. I didn't have time to learn, and I didn't have much patience for what's called the humanities; even though in the university there were humanities that you had to take, I tried my best to avoid somehow to learn anything and to work on it. It's only afterwards, when I've gotten older and more relaxed that I've spread out a little bit — I've learned to draw, and I read a little bit, but I'm really still a very one-sided person and don't know a great deal. I have a limited intelligence and I've used it in a particular direction.

They keep telling you, when you’re older, you’ll have experience—and that’s supposed to be so great. What would you say about that, sir? Is it really any use, would you say?" "What kind of experience?” “Well—places you’ve been to, people you’ve met. Situations you’ve been through already, so you know how to handle them when they come up again. All that stuff that’s supposed to make you wise, in your later years.” “Let me tell you something, Kenny. For other people, I can’t speak—but, personally, I haven’t gotten wise on anything. Certainly, I’ve been through this and that; and when it happens again, I say to myself, Here it is again. But that doesn’t seem to help me. In my opinion, I, personally, have gotten steadily sillier and sillier and sillier—and that’s a fact.” “No kidding, sir? You can’t mean that! You mean, sillier than when you were young?” “Much, much sillier.” “I’ll be darned. Then experience is no use at all? You’re saying it might just as well not have happened?” “No. I’m not saying that. I only mean, you can’t use it. But if you don’t try to—if you just realize it’s there and you’ve got it—then it can be kind of marvelous.

That's what I love about music. - What? - One of the most banal scenes is suddenly invested with so much meaning, you know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these... these beautiful, effervescent pearls. From music. I've got to say, as I've gotten older, these pearls are just... ...becoming increasingly more and more rare to me. More string than pearls? Yeah. You've got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls. This moment is a pearl, Gretta. It sort of is, isn't it? All this has been a pearl.

Because I’ve gotten older, I worry that there will be a steep decline in my talent, but I promise not to let the same thing happen to my passion for writing.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve seen guys that, if you get them off on their own, they can be nice enough, but I don’t care—as soon as you get a few of them together, that’s it. Men turn into idiots when there’s a few of them around. You don’t even recognize them anymore.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that it’s totally possible to love someone from a safe distance.

I’ve sort of lost my ability to multi-task as I’ve gotten older,

I was even starting to relax—a little—until he took me to his parents' house for dinner. I've never met two people more in need of a divorce. They bickered and fought all evening. Royce said that's how they express their love. I don't believe him. I mean, please. You tell me if you feel the love from this conversation (written word for word as I remember it): Linda: Elliot, be a dear and get me another drink. Elliot: Get it yourself. Linda: Get up and fix me a drink, you lazy man. Elliot: Woman, don't push me on this. I've finally gotten comfortable. Linda: (sugary sweet smile) I'll push you only when you're standing on a bridge. Elliot: If I were standing on a bridge and saw you coming, you wouldn't have to push me. I'd jump. See? Does that sound "loving" to you?

Engaging with my environment opened my eyes to the never-ending flow of ideas. But there's even another way to find inspiration, on that I have leaned on more and more as I've gotten older and more experienced: DIGGING RIGHT THROUGH THE BOTTOM OF THE RABBIT HOLE, by which I mean, going as deep as humanly possible on something you care greatly about, something you can't stop thinking about.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that home is less about the place you live, and more about the people who love you. The memories you make. The laughter and tears and all the moments in between.

What I find strange about growing old isn't that I've gotten older. Not that the youthful me from the past has, without my realizing it, aged. What catches me off guard is, rather, how people from the same generation as me have become elderly, how all the pretty, vivacious girls I used to know are now old enough to have a couple of grandkids.

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people—oh, heavens no. It is merely that—as the years pass—there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history.

A small container of Rocky Road lands on the counter next to me. “I figured Rocky Road was appropriate to pave the way to brown town,” she says with a laugh. The man in front of me takes his receipt, and the cashier, a younger woman, reaches for our purchases as soon as Banner starts laughing at her own joke. The cashier’s eyes go wide when she comprehends. “Brown Town? Is that up in the foothills, Logan? I’m not sure I’ve heard of it,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I turn around to face Mrs. Harris, her hands full with a box of tea and a bottle of melatonin, but when I open my mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Banner smiles sweetly and says, “It’s just south of Pussy Ridge. At least, I’m pretty sure it is.” I choke, and the cashier’s face turns red. “Pussy Ridge. I haven’t heard of that either. I’ll have to ask Mr. Harris to get out the Rand McNally so we can take a drive there this weekend. I do love my weekend drives.” I have no idea how Banner is keeping a straight face, but she replies, “I love a good long ride too. Especially when it gets a little rough.” The older woman smiles. “Me too. Emmy has never been a fan, though. She’s always gotten carsick at the littlest bump.” Banner finally grins. “That explains so much about her.” The cashier’s eyes are tearing up as I shove money at her before I bag the ice cream, Doritos, and lube myself. “See you later, Mrs. Harris. You’ll have to let us know how that drive goes.

Unlike being nice, kindness is not about what you're portraying, but what you're doing...applying actual love to make the world a better place. Sure, you may smile nicely at the old woman on the bus, but kindness is what makes you give up your seat for her.... Niceness is a mask many folks can wear because that is simply a part of being in a society. ... The pretend politeness of niceness can get in the way of tactful honesty and constructive critique that can be essential to advancing people and projects to a higher plane. As I've gotten older, I've learned that being 'nice' about something can save you conflict, but often, being real about it can save you time. You just gotta learn when, where, and how to apply your realness. Nonetheless kindness always has a place in the game, even if it's just being kind to yourself. ... All you can do is try your best to be yourself and make a practice of being kind.

Others may not notice it, because an angry Toraf is truly a rare thing to behold, but Galen can practically feel the animosity emanating from his friend. Which is why he casually bumps into him, taking care to be overly apologetic. “Oh, sorry about that, minnow. I didn’t even see you there.” Galen mimics Toraf’s demeanor, crossing his arms and staring ahead of them. What they’re supposed to be staring at, he’s not sure. His effort is rewarded with a slight upward curve of his friend’s mouth. “Oh, don’t think twice about it, tadpole. I know it must be difficult to swim straight with a whale’s tail.” Galen scowls, taking care not to glance down at his fin. Ever since they went to retrieve Grom, he’s been sore all below the waist, but he’d just attributed it to tension from finding Nalia, and then the whole tribunal mess-not to mention, hovering in place for hours at a time. Still, he did examine his fin the evening before, hoping to massage out any knots he found, but was a bit shocked to see that his fin span seemed to have widened. He decided that he was letting his imagination get the better of him. Now he’s not so sure. “What do you mean?” he says lightly. Toraf nods down toward the sand. “You know what I mean. Looks like you have the red fever.” “The red fever bloats you all over, idiot. Right before it kills you. It doesn’t make your fin grow wider. Besides, the red tide hasn’t been bad for years now.” But Toraf already knows what the red fever looks like. Not long after he first became a Tracker, Toraf was commissioned to find an older Syrena who had gone off on his own to die after he’d been caught in what the humans call the red tide. Toraf was forced to tie seaweed around the old one’s fin and pull his body to the Cave of Memories. No, he doesn’t think I have the red fever. Toraf allows himself a long look at Galen’s fin. If it were anyone else, Galen would consider it rude. “Does it hurt?” “It’s sore.” “Have you asked anyone about it?” “I’ve had other things on my mind.” Which is the truth. Galen really hadn’t given it much thought until right now. Now that it has been noticed by someone else. Toraf pulls his own fin around and after a few seconds of twisting and bending, he’s able to measure it against his torso. It spans from his neck to where his waist turns into velvety tail. He nods to Galen to do the same. Galen is horrified to find that his fin now spans from the top of his head to well below his waist. It really does look like a whale tail. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” Toraf says, thoughtful. “I’ve gotten used to having the most impressive fin out of the two of us.” Galen grins, letting his tail fall. “For a minute there I thought you really cared.” Toraf shrugs. “Being self-conscious doesn’t suit you.” Galen follows his gaze back out into the sea ahead of them. “So what do you think about yesterday’s tribunal?” “I think I know where Nalia and Emma get their temper.” Galen laughs. “I thought Jagen was going to pass out when Antonis grabbed him.” “He’s not very good at interacting with others anymore, is he?” “I wonder if he ever was. I told you how crazy Nalia always acted. Could be a family trait.” It looks like Toraf might actually smile but instead his gaze jerks back out to sea, a new scowl on his face. “Oh, no,” Galen groans. “What is it?” Please don’t say Emma. Please don’t say Emma. “Rayna,” Toraf says through clenched teeth. “She’s heading straight for us.” That’s almost as bad.

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people—oh, heavens no. It is merely that—as the years pass—there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history. Those people start to be plucked away by death, and they are awfully hard to replace after they go. After a certain age, it can become difficult to make new friends. The world can begin to feel lonely and sparse, teeming though it may be with freshly minted young souls.

To quote Jimmy Page, “Technique doesn’t come into it- I deal in emotions.” I copped that line a long, long time ago, and it is a coy way to deflect the question, but as I’ve gotten older and more experienced, I’ve discovered that it is a very prescient and true statement. I try to create a mood within myself, and then I convey that mood onto the page- or screen, as technology would have us have it these days- using the best word choice that I can possibly muster. What are the trappings I employ? Oh, candles, music, a bowl of Mother’s Finest- it’s like seducing a woman, if you can believe it, but it’s all in your mind, and then you need to get it out, in as unadulterated a fashion as possible. It’s no good if people see the puppet strings as you’re pulling them, and if it seems like a seduction- the lights too low, the music too slow- then she knows what you’re up to, and it’s all gonna seem false. The best seduction happens without anyone knowing that it’s happening at all.

On the bus, I pull out my book. It's the best book I've ever read, even if I'm only halfway through. It's called Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, with two dots over the e. Jane Eyre lives in England in Queen Victoria's time. She's an orphan who's taken in by a horrid rich aunt who locks her in a haunted room to punish her for lying, even though she didn't lie. Then Jane is sent to a charity school, where all she gets to eat is burnt porridge and brown stew for many years. But she grows up to be clever, slender, and wise anyway. Then she finds work as a governess in a huge manor called Thornfield, because in England houses have names. At Thornfield, the stew is less brown and the people less simple. That's as far as I've gotten... Diving back into Jane Eyre... Because she grew up to be clever, slender and wise, no one calls Jane Eyre a liar, a thief or an ugly duckling again. She tutors a young girl, Adèle, who loves her, even though all she has to her name are three plain dresses. Adèle thinks Jane Eyre's smart and always tells her so. Even Mr. Rochester agrees. He's the master of the house, slightly older and mysterious with his feverish eyebrows. He's always asking Jane to come and talk to him in the evenings, by the fire. Because she grew up to be clever, slender, and wise, Jane Eyre isn't even all that taken aback to find out she isn't a monster after all... Jane Eyre soon realizes that she's in love with Mr. Rochester, the master of Thornfield. To stop loving him so much, she first forces herself to draw a self-portrait, then a portrait of Miss Ingram, a haughty young woman with loads of money who has set her sights on marrying Mr. Rochester. Miss Ingram's portrait is soft and pink and silky. Jane draws herself: no beauty, no money, no relatives, no future. She show no mercy. All in brown. Then, on purpose, she spends all night studying both portraits to burn the images into her brain for all time. Everyone needs a strategy, even Jane Eyre... Mr. Rochester loves Jane Eyre and asks her to marry him. Strange and serious, brown dress and all, he loves her. How wonderful, how impossible. Any boy who'd love a sailboat-patterned, swimsuited sausage who tames rabid foxes would be wonderful. And impossible. Just like in Jane Eyre, the story would end badly. Just like in Jane Eyre, she'd learn the boy already has a wife as crazy as a kite, shut up in the manor tower, and that even if he loves the swimsuited sausage, he can't marry her. Then the sausage would have to leave the manor in shame and travel to the ends of the earth, her heart in a thousand pieces... Oh right, I forgot. Jane Eyre returns to Thornfield one day and discovers the crazy-as-a-kite wife set the manor on fire and did Mr. Rochester some serious harm before dying herself. When Jane shows up at the manor, she discovers Mr. Rochester in the dark, surrounded by the ruins of his castle. He is maimed, blind, unkempt. And she still loves him. He can't believe it. Neither can I. Something like that would never happen in real life. Would it? ... You'll see, the story ends well.

Was I fearless? No. I think as I've gotten older (I'm 28, to answer your question), I've learned to release myself more. Not to hold back. To be exactly who I am, whether that's 'different' or not. I imagine I will only continue to learn and grow into myself. I want to uncover all parts of me.

No, the point of this story is that there are only a select few friends, past or present, that I would go to such lengths to stand by. That's what school really taught me: the enduring nature of friendship. How special it is to grow up and share a history with someone. As I've gotten older, friendships rooted in childhood feel even richer and more irreplaceable.

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people—oh, heavens no. It is merely that—as the years pass—there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people—oh, heavens no. It is merely that—as the years pass—there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history. Those

I love my dad, but I don’t worship him anymore. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that it’s totally possible to love someone from a safe distance.

I was a very nervous kid, I was anxious all the time when I was younger, but what's nice is that some of the things I was anxious about don't bother me at all anymore. Like, uh, I always thought that quicksand was going to be a much bigger problem than it turned out to be. Because if you watch cartoons, quicksand is like the third biggest thing you have to worry about in adult life behind real sticks of dynamite and giant anvils falling on you from the sky. I used to sit around and think about what to do about quicksand. I never thought about how to handle real problems in adult life, I was never like "Oh, what's it gonna be like when relatives ask to borrow money?" Now that I've gotten older, not only have I never stepped in quicksand—I've never even heard about it! No one's ever been like, "Hey if you're coming to visit, take I-90 'cause I-95 has a little quicksand in the middle. Looks like regular sand, but then you're gonna start to sink into it.

The first few years, I forced myself to do the big, extreme things. To honor Kelly. But as I’ve gotten older, now I just do the things I want to do. The things that I think I’ll legitimately enjoy but still push me out of my comfort zone. I try my best to pick my moments. If I’ve learned anything from Kelly it’s that life comes and goes too fast. People are so casual with their time, especially when you consider that it can all be gone in a second.

Never mind physical chemistry, I need intellectual chemistry to hold my attention. Getting lost between the sheets with just any warm body has lost its appeal the older I’ve gotten.

If there’s anything I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older, it’s to love who I am as a person and how easy it is to be content with whatever life brings me. Doesn’t mean I’ve always been walking on sunshine. Life has been very hard at times. But I’ve still had that inner peace that comes from knowing who I am. Being secure in my faith helps too.

I make a contemplative noise, smooshing my pillow again. The older I’ve gotten, the easier it’s become for me to realize that my parents are just . . . people. They’re going through life the first time, just like I am, and while I often wish I had more normal parents—parents who didn’t do shrooms or eschew modern psychiatry or send me long emails about my menses and iron levels, since the last time they saw me I looked a little pale—they aren’t bad parents.

I've grown more OK with mystery as I've gotten older.

Live unapologetically. You might have seen that hashtag pop up on my social media! [laughs] As I’ve gotten older and more comfortable in my own skin, I’ve learned to appreciate what makes me happy. It doesn’t matter if other people are watching or judging. I’ll wear a tutu because for me, that means there’s a happily ever after and a knight in shining armor. I’m all about celebrating your unique quirks, your passion and drive, what makes you, you. Don’t miss out on those moments of happiness because you’re worried about what other people think.

Passion Elimination Plan”—the one with your name on it. That’s what I’d do. If I were your enemy. I’d weaken your passion, your cutting edge—knowing full well that weak, impotent prayers (or better yet, prayerlessness) would follow right behind. So take a long, hard, deep look at yourself and answer this question: Have you lost your passion? Has your get-up-and-go simply gotten-up-and-gone? Maybe you’ve prayed and prayed for the same thing, over and over. . . . Maybe you’ve wanted God’s will so bad, and wanted life to look different for so long. . . . Maybe you’re feeling utterly discouraged or disappointed right now and not sure why you keep being surprised every time the same ol’ thing keeps happening again and again. . . . Maybe other demands and distractions have leaked into your heart over time, crowding out space where older, nobler priorities once ruled. I get all of that. I’ve felt a lot of that.

I think there was always a yearning in me for something else, something beyond myself, from which I felt excluded. Even in the most chaotic times, when I was struggling with addiction, I always felt desirous of those who had a religious dimension to their lives. I had a kind of spiritual envy, a longing for a belief in the face of the impossibility of belief that addressed a fundamental emptiness inside me. There was always a yearning. As I’ve gotten older, I have come to see that maybe the search is the religious experience - the desire to believe and the longing for meaning, the moving towards the ineffable. Maybe that is what is essentially important, despite the absurdity of it. Or, indeed, because of the absurdity of it.  When it comes down to it, maybe faith is just a decision like any other. And perhaps God is the search itself.

Don't whistle. My mom used to say, "Avoid whistlers at all costs." ... As I've gotten older I think I get why. On a basic level, it's creepy. But beyond that, whistling is basically saying, I am so incredibly at ease in this world I feel fine filling the few sacred silences we have left with the sound of my dippity-doo-dah dipshit whistle. I (don't) hate to generalize, but I've noticed that it's usually white men who do this?

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people – oh, heavens no. it is merely that – as the years pass – there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who know the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history. Those people start to be plucked away by death, and they are awfully hard to replace after they go. After a certain age, it can become difficult to make new friends. The world can begin to feel lonely and sparse, teeming though it may be with freshly minted young souls.

This is what I've found about life, as I've gotten older: you start to lose people. It's not that there is ever a shortage of people--oh, heavens no. It is merely that--as the years pass--there comes to be a terrible shortage of YOUR people. The ones YOU loved. The ones who knew the people that you BOTH loved. The ones who know your whole history.

As I've gotten older, I've gotten much more relaxed. I'm much less concerned about looking silly or making a mistake. If I'm making a mistake or looking dumb, eh, whatever . . . you know, so be it. It's much more about just being in the moment and connecting with the people in the room with you at the time.

There was a time when I would run up to my dad and hug him so fiercely that my feet would lift right off the ground. I love my dad, but I don’t worship him anymore. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that it’s totally possible to love someone from a safe distance.

Fitz, there’s nothing the matter with you that I’ve ever seen before. At least, whatever’s the matter with you isn’t in your guts or blood. If you were a bit older, I’d suspect you had woman problems. You act like a soldier on a three-day drunk, but without the wine. Boy, what’s the matter with you?” He looked down on me with sincere worry. It was the same look he wore when he was afraid a mare was going to miscarry, or when hunters brought back dogs that boars had gotten to. It reached me, and without meaning to, I quested out toward him. As always, the wall was there, but Vixen whined lightly and put her muzzle against my cheek. I tried to express what was inside me without betraying Chade. “I’m just so alone now,” I heard myself say, and even to me it sounded like a feeble complaint. “Alone?” Burrich’s brows knit. “Fitz, I’m right here. How can you say you’re alone?” And there the conversation ended, with both of us looking at each other and neither understanding at all.

This is what I’ve found about life, as I’ve gotten older: you start to lose people, Angela. It’s not that there is ever a shortage of people—oh, heavens no. It is merely that—as the years pass—there comes to be a terrible shortage of your people. The ones you loved. The ones who knew the people that you both loved. The ones who know your whole history. Those people start to be plucked away by death, and they are awfully hard to replace after they go. After a certain age, it can become difficult to make new friends. The world can begin to feel lonely and sparse, teeming though it may be with freshly minted young souls.

Seibel: Some people love Lisp syntax and some can't stand it. Why is that? Deutsch: Well, I can't speak for anyone else. But I can tell you why I don't want to work with Lisp syntax anymore. There are two reasons. Number one, and I alluded to this earlier, is that the older I've gotten, the more important it is to me that the density of information per square inch in front of my face is high. The density of information per square inch in infix languages is higher than in Lisp. Seibel: But almost all languages are, in fact, prefix, except for a small handful of arithmetic operators. Deutsch: That's not actually true. In Python, for example, it's not true for list, tuple, and dictionary construction. That's done with bracketing. String formatting is done infix. Seibel: As it is in Common Lisp with FORMAT. Deutsch: OK, right. But the things that aren't done infix; the common ones, being loops and conditionals, are not prefix. They're done by alternating keywords and what it is they apply to. In that respect they are actually more verbose than Lisp. But that brings me to the other half, the other reason why I like Python syntax better, which is that Lisp is lexically pretty monotonous.

There's a place for female friendship that's really important in the lives of all the women I know. As I've gotten older, it's become much more important to me.

When I move quickly, no one notices my strange gait or the long wooden cane I use to favor my right leg. I’ve gotten the flow down so smooth I almost glide along toward the milky darkness of Prospect Park.

There are very many women like me, you know,” she murmured as the morning approached, while she lay with her hair streaming across his neck and chest. “Women with my kind of upbringing, ones with older titles and nicer faces and figures.” She felt him smile against her cheek. “What are you trying to say? That you'd rather I'd married someone else?” “Of course not.” She tugged at a curl of his chest hair reprovingly. “It's just that I'm not the great prize you make me out to be. You could have gotten any woman that you had set your heart on.” “In my entire life, there's only been you. You're every dream and wish and want I've ever had.” His hand played gently in her hair. “Mind you, I don't always like feeling this damn happy… It's a bit like king of the mountain.” “Now that you've reached the top of the pile, you're afraid to be knocked off?” she asked perceptively. “Something like that.

My father has always worn his dreams on the outside, so even as a preteen I knew what they were. I'd known for years he'd wanted to have his own school. He had other dreams that I recognized but still can't articulate, even as I've gotten older. His ill-advised motorcycle purchase; his leather suits, studded and fringed, that he wore in ninety-degree weather; the Prince he listened to on his Walkman while he rode: there was something at the heart of my father that felt too big for the life he'd been born into. He was forever in love with the promise of the horizon: the girls he cheated with, fell in love with, one after another, all corporeal telescopes to another reality.

Seibel: Some people love Lisp syntax and some can't stand it. Why is that? Deutsch: Well, I can't speak for anyone else. But I can tell you why I don't want to work with Lisp syntax anymore. There are two reasons. Number one, and I alluded to this earlier, is that the older I've gotten, the more important it is to me that the density of information per square inch in front of my face is high. The density of information per square inch in infix languages is higher than in Lisp.

As I've gotten older and realised that society's expectations are only as firm as we allow them to be, I've discovered that allowing myself to unmask and be my authentic autistic self--stims and all--has unleashed more ability than I ever had when I was locking myself away.

As our band’s progressed,” says Jenny Conlee, “Colin [Meloy] has wanted more and more creative control over the music. So I feel a little bit more like a player. . . . [I’m] a keyboard player, he’s not a keyboard player, so I can do what I want. I feel a little bit worse for [Chris] Funk our guitar player, because Colin’s a great guitar player and he has ideas for Chris. So Chris is a little less free.” At the same time, she says, “I think I’ve gotten more respectful of the song as the years go by. I came from a jam band scene [where] every single moment in the song is filled; so I came into the band like that; ‘Oh, we need piano on that,ʼ and Colin is like, ‘Rein in the Bruce Hornsby a little bit.’ . . . As our band is getting older, I feel like Colin’s giving me more freedom to be a little bit busier—I guess you have to rein it in before you can let her go again.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the life I’ve created for myself and the person I’ve blossomed into are not because of Ruby but in spite of her.