Retired But Not Tired Quotes

The Bohemian who tires of life, who gives up by retirement into insamity or suicide, is not necessarily one who had failed in what he wants to express.

It had been June, the bright hot summer of 1937, and with the curtains thrown back the bedroom had been full of sunlight, sunlight and her and Will's children, their grandchildren, their nieces and nephews- Cecy's blue eyed boys, tall and handsome, and Gideon and Sophie's two girls- and those who were as close as family: Charlotte, white- haired and upright, and the Fairchild sons and daughters with their curling red hair like Henry's had once been. The children had spoken fondly of the way he had always loved their mother, fiercely and devotedly, the way he had never had eyes for anyone else, and how their parents had set the model for the sort of love they hoped to find in their own lives. They spoke of his regard for books, and how he had taught them all to love them too, to respect the printed page and cherish the stories that those pages held. They spoke of the way he still cursed in Welsh when he dropped something, though he rarely used the language otherwise, and of the fact that though his prose was excellent- he had written several histories of the Shadowhunters when he's retired that had been very well respected- his poetry had always been awful, though that never stopped him from reciting it. Their oldest child, James, had spoken laughingly about Will's unrelenting fear of ducks and his continual battle to keep them out of the pond at the family home in Yorkshire. Their grandchildren had reminded him of the song about demon pox he had taught them- when they were much too young, Tessa had always thought- and that they had all memorized. They sang it all together and out of tune, scandalizing Sophie. With tears running down her face, Cecily had reminded him of the moment at her wedding to Gabriel when he had delivered a beautiful speech praising the groom, at the end of which he had announced, "Dear God, I thought she was marrying Gideon. I take it all back," thus vexing not only Cecily and Gabriel but Sophie as well- and Will, though too tired to laugh, had smiled at his sister and squeezed her hand. They had all laughed about his habit of taking Tessa on romantic "holidays" to places from Gothic novels, including the hideous moor where someone had died, a drafty castle with a ghost in it, and of course the square in Paris in which he had decided Sydney Carton had been guillotined, where Will had horrified passerby by shouting "I can see the blood on the cobblestones!" in French.

Old age is not a limitation or that your time have expired. Retirement is not that you are tired.You have more experience

And I’ve already spent too much time Doing things I didn’t want to So if I want to drink alone dressed like a pirate Or look like a dyke Or wear high heels and lipstick Or hide in a convent Or try to be mayor Or marry a writer Smoke crack and slash tires Make jokes you don’t like Or paint ducks and retire You can bet your black ass that I’m going to. —from An Evening With Neil Gaiman & Amanda Palmer, 2013

It can be easier to believe resting is simply about retiring to your bed when you are tired instead of beginning the messy process of deconstructing your own beliefs and behaviors that are aligned with white supremacy and capitalism. You must be committed to studying how training under the abusive teachings of dominant culture has you bound and limited. This is healing work. This is justice work. When we are aligned against the ideas of the oppressive culture, we understand we didn’t arrive on Earth to be a tool for a capitalist system.

It is very easy to grow tired at collecting; the period of a low tide is about all men can endure. At first the rocks are bright and every moving animal makes his mark on the attention. The picture is wide and colored and beautiful. But after an hour and a half the attention centers weary, the color fades, and the field is likely to narrow to an individual animal. Here one may observe his own world narrowed down until interest and, with it, observation, flicker and go out. And what if with age this weariness becomes permanent and observation dim out and not recover? Can this be what happens to so many men of science? Enthusiasm, interest, sharpness, dulled with a weariness until finally they retire into easy didacticism? With this weariness, this stultification of attention centers, perhaps there comes the pained and sad memory of what the old excitement was like, and regret might turn to envy of the men who still have it. Then out of the shell of didacticism, such a used-up man might attack the unwearied, and he would have in his hands proper weapons of attack. It does seem certain that to a wearied man an error in a mass of correct data wipes out all the correctness and is a focus for attack; whereas the unwearied man, in his energy and receptivity, might consider the little dross of error a by-product of his effort. These two may balance and produce a purer thing than either in the end. These two may be the stresses which hold up the structure, but it is a sad thing to see the interest in interested men thin out and weaken and die. We have known so many professors who once carried their listeners high on their single enthusiasm, and have seen these same men finally settle back comfortably into lectures prepared years before and never vary them again. Perhaps this is the same narrowing we observe in relation to ourselves and the tide pool—a man looking at reality brings his own limitations to the world. If he has strength and energy of mind the tide pool stretches both ways, digs back to electrons and leaps space into the universe and fights out of the moment into non-conceptual time. Then ecology has a synonym which is ALL.

The Slabs functions as the seasonal capital of a teeming itinerant society—a tolerant, rubber-tired culture comprising the retired, the exiled, the destitute, the perpetually unemployed. Its constituents are men and women and children of all ages, folks on the dodge from collection agencies, relationships gone sour, the law or the IRS, Ohio winters, the middle-class grind.

On the way, between the cemetery and the station car park, he told me that he wanted to retire. That he was tired, that it was time for him to hand over to someone else, and that someone could only be me.

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is the Chinese tombs and the slag hills Usurp the soil, and not the soil retires. Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. Not to have fire is to be a skin that shrills. The complete fire is death. From partial fires The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is the poems you have lost, the ills From missing dates, at which the heart expires. Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. - 'Missing Dates

For many years Henry Kitteridge was a pharmacist in the next town over, driving every morning on snowy roads, or rainy roads, or summertime roads, when the while raspberries shot their new growth in brambles along the last section of town before he turned off to where the wider road led to the pharmacy. Retired now, he still wakes early and remembers how mornings used to be his favorite, as though the world were his secret, tires rumbling softly beneath him and the light emerging through the early fog, the brief sight of the bay off to his right, then the pines, tall and slender, and almost always he road with the window partly open because he loved the smell of the pines and the heavy salt air, and in the winter he loved the smell of the cold.

From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted […] in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed.  When tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery […]. I then sat with my doll on my knee, till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib.

In the evening we shall be examined on love.” –St. John of the Cross And it won’t be multiple choice, though some of us would prefer it that way. Neither will it be essay, which tempts us to run on when we should be sticking to the point, if not together. In the evening there shall be implications our fear will change to complications. No cheating, we’ll be told, and we’ll try to figure out the cost of being true to ourselves. In the evening when the sky has turned that certain blue, blue of exam books, blue of no more daily evasions, we shall climb the hill as the light empties and park our tired bodies on a bench above the city and try to fill in the blanks. And we won’t be tested like defendants on trial, cross-examined till one of us breaks down, guilty as charged. No, in the evening, after the day has refused to testify, we shall be examined on love like students who don’t even recall signing up for the course and now must take their orals, forced to speak for once from the heart and not off the top of their heads. And when the evening is over and it’s late, the student body asleep, even the great teachers retired for the night, we shall stay up and run back over the questions, each in our own way: what’s true, what’s false, what unknown quantity will balance the equation, what it would mean years from now to look back and know we did not fail.

Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse—some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication—there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones—that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit—if he be a sensible hermit—will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say, "It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is." And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds and singing of liberated streams will call him to kindly resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the way of all flesh, As well soon as syne.

Ready and determined, I follow the advice of Zeno, Cleanthes, and Chrysippus, all of whom bid one take part in public affairs, though none of them ever did so himself: and then, as soon as something disturbs my mind, which is not used to receiving shocks, as soon as something occurs which is either disgraceful, such as often occurs in all men's lives, or which does not proceed quite easily, or when subjects of very little importance require me to devote a great deal of time to them, I go back to my life of leisure, and, just as even tired cattle go faster when they are going home, I wish to retire and pass my life within the walls of my house. "No one," I say, "that will give me no compensation worth such a loss shall ever rob me of a day. Let my mind be contained within itself and improve itself: let it take no part with other men's affairs, and do nothing which depends on the approval of others: let me enjoy a tranquility undisturbed by either public or private troubles.

I can't bear heat," remarked the Princess Langwidere, yawning lazily, "so I shall stay at home. But I wish you may have success in your undertaking, for I am heartily tired of ruling this stupid kingdom, and I need more leisure in which to admire my beautiful heads." "We do not need you," said Ozma. "For, if with the aid of my brave followers I cannot accomplish my purpose, then it would be useless for you to undertake the journey." "Quite true," sighed the Princess. "So, if you'll excuse me, I will now retire to my cabinet. I've worn this head quite awhile, and I want to change it for another.

Most people would not attempt to climb Mount Everest on their own. Typically, climbers will look toward Sherpas, who have served as guides for generations in Nepal, high in the Himalayas. They help climbers prepare and show them along the routes that will get them to the top. They are seasoned and know every details of the trails. But your guide is even more essentail if you are to make it back down safely. Coming down the mountain can be the most perilous part. You're tired. Your defenses are down. You may very well fall at the critical moment. You need that guide. As you approach retirement, you are moving to a different phase of life. You are descending the mountain.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, restaurants and whore-houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flop-houses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said: "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing. In the morning when the sardine fleet has made a catch, the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay blowing their whistles. The deep-laden boats pull in against the coast where the canneries dip their tails into the bay. The figure is advisedly chosen, for if the canneries dipped their mouths into the bay the canned sardines which emerge from the other end would be metaphorically, at least, even more horrifying. Then cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the Row to go to work. Then shining cars bring the upper classes down: superintendents, accountants, owners who disappear into offices. Then from the town pour Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women in trousers and rubber coats and oilcloth aprons. They come running to clean and cut and pack and cook and can the fish. The whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats and the boats rise higher and higher in the water until they are empty. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again-quiet and magical. Its normal life returns. The bums who retired in disgust under the black cypress-tree come out to sit on the rusty pipes in the vacant lot. The girls from Dora's emerge for a bit of sun if there is any. Doc strolls from the Western Biological Laboratory and crosses the street to Lee Chong's grocery for two quarts of beer. Henri the painter noses like an Airedale through the junk in the grass-grown lot for some pan or piece of wood or metal he needs for the boat he is building. Then the darkness edges in and the street light comes on in front of Dora's-- the lamp which makes perpetual moonlight in Cannery Row. Callers arrive at Western Biological to see Doc, and he crosses the street to Lee Chong's for five quarts of beer. How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise-- the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-- be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will on to a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book-- to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.

Bell treated his friend and colleague Watson generously. Though he had no legal obligations to do so, he awarded Watson 10 percent of the company, allowing Watson to retire rich at the age of just twenty-seven. Able to do anything he wanted, Watson devoted the rest of his life to just that. He traveled the world, read widely, and took a degree in geology at MIT for the simple satisfaction of improving his brain. He then started a shipyard, which quickly grew to employ four thousand men, producing a scale of stress and obligation way beyond anything he wished for, so he sold the business, converted to Islam, and became a follower of Edward Bellamy, a radical philosopher and quasi communist who for a short period in the 1880s enjoyed phenomenal esteem and popularity. Tiring of Bellamy, Watson moved to England in early middle age and took up acting, for which he showed an unexpected talent. He proved particularly adept at Shakespearean roles and performed many times at Stratford-upon-Avon before returning to America and a life of quiet retirement. He died, contented and rich, at his winter home on Pass-Grille Key, Florida, just shy of his eighty-first birthday in 1934.

The other strikingly modern feature of the type of poet which Euripides now introduced into the history of literature is his apparently voluntary refusal to take any part whatever in public life. Euripides was not a soldier as Aeschylus was, nor a priestly dignitary as Sophocles was, but, on the other hand, he is the very first poet who is reported to have possessed a library, and he appears to be also the first poet to lead the life of a scholar in complete retirement from the world. If the bust of him, with its tousled hair, its tired eyes and the embittered lines round the mouth, is a true portrait, and if we are right in seeing in it a discrepancy between body and spirit, and the expression of a restless and dissatisfied life, then we may say that Euripides was the first unhappy poet, the first whose poetry brought him suffering. The notion of genius in the modern sense is not merely completely strange to the ancient world; its poets and artists have nothing of the genius about them. The rational and craftsmanlike elements in art are far more important for them than the irrational and intuitive. Plato’s doctrine of enthusiasm emphasized, indeed, that poets owed their work to divine inspiration and not to mere technical ability, but this idea by no means leads to the exaltation of the poet; it only increases the gulf between him and his work, and makes of him a mere instrument of the divine purpose. It is, however, of the essence of the modern notion of genius that there is no gulf between the artist and his work, or, if such a gulf is admitted, that the genius is far greater than any of his works and can never be adequately expressed in them. So genius connotes for us a tragic loneliness and inability to make itself fully understood. But the ancient world knows nothing of this or of the other tragic feature of the modern artist—his lack of recognition by his own contemporaries and his despairing appeals to a remote posterity. There is not a trace of all this—at least before Euripides. Euripides’ lack of success was mainly due to the fact that there was nothing in classical times that could be called an educated middle class. The old aristocracy took no pleasure in his plays, owing to their different outlook on life, and the new bourgeois public could not enjoy them either, owing to its lack of education. With his philosophical radicalism, Euripides is a unique pheno menon, even among the poets of his age, for these are in general as conservative in their outlook as were those of the classical age —in spite of a naturalism of style which was derived from the urban and commercial society they lived in, and which had reached a point at which it was really incompatible with political conservatism. As politicians and partisans these poets hold to their conservative doctrines, but as artists they are swept along in the progressive stream of their times. This inner contradiction in their work is a completely new phenomenon in the social history of art.

You are God. You want to make a forest, something to hold the soil, lock up energy, and give off oxygen. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to rough in a slab of chemicals, a green acre of goo? You are a man, a retired railroad worker who makes replicas as a hobby. You decide to make a replica of one tree, the longleaf pine your great-grandfather planted- just a replica- it doesn’t have to work. How are you going to do it? How long do you think you might live, how good is your glue? For one thing, you are going to have to dig a hole and stick your replica trunk halfway to China if you want the thing to stand up. Because you will have to work fairly big; if your replica is too small, you’ll be unable to handle the slender, three-sided needles, affix them in clusters of three in fascicles, and attach those laden fascicles to flexible twigs. The twigs themselves must be covered by “many silvery-white, fringed, long-spreading scales.” Are your pine cones’ scales “thin, flat, rounded at the apex?” When you loose the lashed copper wire trussing the limbs to the trunk, the whole tree collapses like an umbrella. You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder around the entire pine…and pour wet plaster over and inside the pine. Now open the walls, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air. You are a chloroplast moving in water heaved one hundred feet above ground. Hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen in a ring around magnesium…you are evolution; you have only begun to make trees. You are god- are you tired? Finished?

✓My music had roots which I'd dug up from my own childhood, musical roots buried in the darkest soil. ✓What makes my approach special is that I do different things. I do jazz, blues, country music and so forth. I do them all, like a good utility man ✓What is a soul? It's like electricity - we don't really know what it is, but it's a force that can light a room ✓There are many spokes on the wheel of life. First, we're here to explore new possibilities. ✓I did it to myself. It wasn't society... it wasn't a pusher, it wasn't being blind or being black or being poor. It was all my doing. ✓What makes my approach special is that I do different things. I do jazz, blues, country music and so forth. I do them all, like a good utility man. ✓There's nothing written in the Bible, Old or New testament, that says, 'If you believe in Me, you ain't going to have no troubles.' ✓Music to me is like breathing. I don't get tired of breathing, I don't get tired of music. ✓Just because you can't see anything , doesn't mean you should shut your eyes. ✓Don't go backwards - you've already been there. ✓Affluence separates people. Poverty knits 'em together. You got some sugar and I don't; I borrow some of yours. Next month you might not have any flour; well, I'll give you some of mine. ✓Sometimes my dreams are so deep that I dream that I'm dreaming. ✓I don't think any of us really knows why we're here. But I think we're supposed to believe we're here for a purpose. ✓I'd like to think that when I sing a song, I can let you know all about the heartbreak, struggle, lies and kicks in the ass I've gotten over the years for being black and everything else, without actually saying a word about it. ✓.There's nothing written in the Bible, Old or New testament, that says, 'If you believe in Me, you ain't going to have no troubles.' ✓Other arms reach out to me, Other eyes smile tenderly, Still in peaceful dreams I see, The road leads back to you. ✓I can't help what I sound like. What I sound like is what i am. You know? I cannot be anything other that what I am. ✓Music is about the only thing left that people don't fight over. ✓My version of 'Georgia' became the state song of Georgia. That was a big thing for me, man. It really touched me. Here is a state that used to lynch people like me suddenly declaring my version of a song as its state song. That is touching. ✓Absence makes the heart grow fonder and tears are only rain to make love grow. ✓If you can play the blues, you can do anything. ✓I never considered myself part of rock 'n' roll. My stuff was more adult. It was more difficult for teenagers to relate to; my stuff was filled with more despair than anything you'd associate with rock 'n' roll. Since I couldn't see people dancing, I didn't write jitterbugs or twists. I wrote rhythms that moved me. My style requires pure heart singing. ✓It's like Duke Ellington said, there are only two kinds of music - good and bad. And you can tell when something is good. ✓Rhythm and blues used to be called race music. ... This music was going on for years, but nobody paid any attention to it. ✓Crying's always been a way for me to get things out which are buried deep, deep down. When I sing, I often cry. Crying is feeling, and feeling is being human. ✓I cant retire from music any more than I can retire from my liver. Youd have to remove the music from me surgically—like you were taking out my appendix. ✓The words to country songs are very earthy like the blues. They're not as dressed up and the people are very honest and say, 'Look, I miss you darlin', so I went out and got drunk in this bar.' That's the way you say it. Where in Tin Pan Alley they would say, 'Oh I missed you darling, so I went to this restaurant and I sat down and had a dinn

Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse—some congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication—there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones—that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit—if he be a sensible hermit—will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life’s wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say, “It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is.” And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring’s softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, will call him to kindly resurrection.

Charm is an elusive quality. Some have it; no teacher can afford to be without it. Teachers who lack charm must resort to violence.” “How much more dignified to retire from the world rather than wait for the world to tire of you.” “Reform, like gender, is a concept in constant need of reinvention.

Old age is not a limitation or that your time have expired.Retirement is not that you are tired but that you have more experience

Old age is not a limitation or that your time have expired.Retirement is not that you are tired.You have more experience

Old age is not a limitation or that your time have expired. Retirement is not that you are tired.You have more experience

Keep Inspiring everyday, because when you retire, you will lose desire, become tired, and expire.

Talking Dog One day, while driving in the country, a man noticed a sign that said “Talking Dog for Sale.”  The sign pointed to a farm house off the road just a bit.  The man’s interest was piqued so he pulled off the road and headed up to the farm house. When he got there and inquired about the talking dog, the farmer told him the talking dog was around the back of the farm house.  The farmer said the man was welcome to go in back and talk with the dog. The man was in a serious state of disbelief, because he knew dogs couldn’t talk.  Still he was very curious so he headed around to the backyard. In the backyard the man noticed a poodle that quickly came up to him.  The man thought to himself, “Hmmm poodles are supposed to be smart dogs.” “Can you really talk?” the man asked the poodle. “I sure can,” replied back the poodle. “Wow,” exclaimed the man.  Wanting to hear more he asked, “So what’s your story?” “I discovered I could talk when I was very young,” said the poodle.  “I knew I had a real gift so I thought I should do something about it.  I joined the CIA and became one of their very best spies.  I was sent on many secret missions.  I traveled all around the world and was involved in many interesting and intriguing cases. I even helped save the life of the President on two occasions. After eight years I got tired of all the jetting around and decided to retire.  I was given several awards for all my achievements and a gala dinner, attended by many important people, was held in my honor.  I was given a full government pension and brought to this farm to enjoy the rest of my life.” After hearing all this, the man was astounded.  He quickly went back to the farmer and said, “I want that dog!  I will buy it at any price.  How much do you want for that dog?” “Ten dollars,” was the farmer’s reply. “Ten dollars?” the man said in disbelief.  “That dog is amazing, why on earth would you sell it for so little?” “Because he’s a big liar; he didn’t do any of those things!

She was forty-one years old, and she was tired. But the fatigue would pass. The old dreams of full-time motherhood and a cushy retirement were forever forgotten.

I will be confident about my ability to resist disease. I will succeed at losing pounds and regaining excellent health. I will be able to fit into fashionable clothes, including my favorite blue dress. My cholesterol will improve by at least fifty points. I will look good in a bathing suit at the pool this summer. I will have more energy and be able to enjoy bike trips with my children. My husband/wife/other will find me more attractive. My job will be less tiring, and I will perform better and make more money. I will save money on health care and will be able to save for my retirement. I will have a better social life and be in a position to attract John [or Jane]. My knees and back will stop hurting.

Your retirement does not mean you are tired but you have learned more or acquired more experience.

When they are tired of you, they will wish for your retirement

I used to be a dairy farmer, but I don’t do so much anymore. I’m not retired. I’m just tired.” I think Amos just made another joke. You haven’t seen deadpan delivery till you’ve seen the Amish.

One day, I shall be retired from being professional but no day, I shall be tired of being human

Bogle has estimated an all-in cost for actively managed funds of 2.27 per cent of the funds’ value. The amounts may not seem excessive. But Bogle never tires of saying to fund investors: ‘Do not allow the tyranny of compounding costs to overwhelm the magic of compounding returns.’38 In fact, if you assume Bogle’s estimate of fund management costs and also assume an annual return of 7 per cent, the total return to a saver over forty years will be 65 per cent higher without the charges. In hard cash, the difference could mean retiring with $100,000 or $165,000.39 It’s a good deal for the fund manager; rather less so for the investor.

I'm grasping for some sense of alacrity and the compulsion to perform in a broad way, before life's random curtain call retires me from this tired satire, this comically absurd play.

Anneke, I don't know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you." I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. "You don't have to worry, Murph. I don't want to have a job here. I'm tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crap-buckets like the Mannings. I'm tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I'm tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I'm tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I'm finished. I'm the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you've never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it's clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done." I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw. I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie. "That's a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk." He leers at me. "That time of the month?" The Barbie giggles. "Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn't mean you don't HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it." And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.

And this creates an auditioning problem, where public avowals of loyalty to the system must be volubly made whether there is a need for them or not. It is an extension of a well-known problem in liberalism which has been recognized even among those who did once fight a noble fight. It is a tendency identified by the late Australian political philosopher Kenneth Minogue as ‘St George in retirement’ syndrome. After slaying the dragon the brave warrior finds himself stalking the land looking for still more glorious fights. He needs his dragons. Eventually, after tiring himself out in pursuit of ever-smaller dragons he may eventually even be found swinging his sword at thin air, imagining it to contain dragons.15 If that is a temptation for an actual St George, imagine what a person might do who is no saint, owns no horse or lance and is being noticed by nobody. How might they try to persuade people that, given the historic chance, they too would without question have slain that dragon?

George, I probably owe you an apology,” Maureen said. “I don’t think I was as friendly as I could have been when we ran into each other at Jack’s a week or so ago. The fact is, I do remember meeting you at Luke’s wedding. I don’t know why I was acting as if I couldn’t remember you. It isn’t like me to play coy like that.” “I knew that, Mrs. Riordan,” he said. She was stunned. “You knew?” He smiled gently. Kindly. “I saw it in your eyes,” he explained, then shifted his own back and forth, breaking eye contact, demonstrating what he saw. “And the moment I met you I knew you were more straightforward than that. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” She was a little uncomfortable now, in fact. She felt vulnerable, being found out before she even had a chance to confess. “And I was widowed quite a while ago.” “Yes, I know that, too. Twelve years or so?” he asked. She put her hands on her hips. “And you know this how?” she asked, not trying too hard to keep the indignant tone from her voice. “Well, I asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what a man does when he has an interest in a woman. He asks about her.” “Is that so? Well, what else did you find out?” “Nothing embarrassing, I swear. Just that you’ve been widowed quite a while now, all five sons are in the military, you live in Phoenix and, as far as anyone knows, you’re not currently seeing anyone special.” Special? she thought. Not seeing anyone period with absolutely no intention of doing so. “Interesting,” she said. “Well, I don’t know a thing about you.” “Of course you do. I’m a friend of Noah’s. A teacher.” He chuckled. “And obviously I have time on my hands.” “That’s not very much information,” she said. He took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped some of the sawdust and sweat off his brow. “You’re welcome to ask me anything you like. I’m an open book.” “How long have you been a teacher?” she asked, starting with a safe subject. “Twenty years now, and I’m thinking of making some changes. I’m seventy and I always thought retirement would turn me into an old fuddy-duddy, but I’m rethinking that. I’d like to have more time to do the things I enjoy most and, fortunately, I have a small pension and some savings. Besides, I’m tired of keeping a rigid schedule.” “You would retire?” “Again.” He laughed. “I retired the first time at the age of fifty and, after twenty years at the university, I could retire again. There are so many young professors who’d love to see a tenured old goat like me leave an opening for them.” “And before you were a teacher?” “A Presbyterian minister,” he said. “Oh! You’re joking!” she said. “I’m afraid it’s the truth.” “I’m Catholic!” He laughed. “How nice for you.” “You’re making fun of me,” she accused. “I’m making fun of your shock,” he said. “Don’t you have any non-Catholic friends?” “Of course. Many. But—” “Because I have quite a few Catholic friends. And Jewish and Mormon and other faiths. I used to play golf with a priest friend every Thursday afternoon for years. I had to quit. He was a cheat.” “He was not!” “You’re right, he wasn’t. I just threw that in there to see if I could rile you up. No one riles quite as beautifully as a redhead.

Well! Being born into this world there are, I suppose, many aims which we may strive to attain. The Imperial Throne of the Mikado inspires us with the greatest awe; even the uttermost leaf of the Imperial Family Tree is worthy of honour and very different from the rest of mankind. As to the position of a certain august personage (i.e. the Mikado's regent) there can be no question, and those whose rank entitles them to a Palace Guard are very magnificent also - their sons and grandsons, even if they fall into poverty, are still gentlefolk. But when those who are of lower degree chance to rise in the world and assume an aspect of arrogance, though they may think themselves grand, it is very regrettable. Now there is no life so undesirable as that of a priest. Truly indeed did Sei Shô-nagon write, 'People think of them as if they were only chips of wood.' Their savage violence and loud shouting does not show them to advantage, and I feel sure that, as the sage Zôga said, their desire for notoriety is not in accordance with the sacred precepts of Buddha. To retire from the world in real earnest, on the contrary, is indeed praiseworthy, and some I hope there may be who are willing to do so. A man should preferably have pleasing features and a good style; one never tires of meeting those who can engage in some little pleasant conversation and who have an attractive manner, but who are not too talkative. It is a great pity, however, if a man's true character does not come up to his prepossessing appearance. One's features are fixed by nature; but, if we wish to, may we not change our hearts from good to better? For, if a man though handsome and good-natured has no real ability, his position will suffer, and in association with men of a less engaging aspect his deficiency will cause him to be thrown into the background, which is indeed a pity. The thing to aim at, therefore, is the path of true literature, the study of prose, poetry, and music; to be an accepted authority for others on ancient customs and ceremonies is also praiseworthy. One who is quick and clever at writing and sketching, who has a pleasant voice, who can beat time to music, and who does not refuse a little wine, even thoughhe cannot drink much, is a good man.

Well! Being born into this world there are, I suppose, many aims which we may strive to attain. The Imperial Throne of the Mikado inspires us with the greatest awe; even the uttermost leaf of the Imperial Family Tree is worthy of honour and very different from the rest of mankind. As to the position of a certain august personage (i.e. the Mikado's regent) there can be no question, and those whose rank entitles them to a Palace Guard are very magnificent also - their sons and grandsons, even if they fall into poverty, are still gentlefolk. But when those who are of lower degree chance to rise in the world and assume an aspect of arrogance, though they may think themselves grand, it is very regrettable. Now there is no life so undesirable as that of a priest. Truly indeed did Sei Shô-nagon write, 'People think of them as if they were only chips of wood.' Their savage violence and loud shouting does not show them to advantage, and I feel sure that, as the sage Zôga said, their desire for notoriety is not in accordance with the sacred precepts of Buddha. To retire from the world in real earnest, on the contrary, is indeed praiseworthy, and some I hope there may be who are willing to do so. A man should preferably have pleasing features and a good style; one never tires of meeting those who can engage in some little pleasant conversation and who have an attractive manner, but who are not too talkative. It is a great pity, however, if a man's true character does not come up to his prepossessing appearance. One's features are fixed by nature; but, if we wish to, may we not change our hearts from good to better? For, if a man though handsome and good-natured has no real ability, his position will suffer, and in association with men of a less engaging aspect his deficiency will cause him to be thrown into the background, which is indeed a pity. The thing to aim at, therefore, is the path of true literature, the study of prose, poetry, and music; to be an accepted authority for others on ancient customs and ceremonies is also praiseworthy. One who is quick and clever at writing and sketching, who has a pleasant voice, who can beat time to music, and who does not refuse a little wine, even though he cannot drink much, is a good man.

Steve Trevor: An angel. I must be in Heaven. Wonder Woman: You're not dead. Are you a deserter or a spy? Steve Trevor: I'm not sure I should tell you. Wonder Woman: Well, I did just save your life. Why were they trying to shoot you? Steve Trevor: Just between you and me, I got something they want. Wonder Woman: Go on. Steve Trevor: Word is, they're planning an invasion of England, and I have a way of finding out when and where. But it's not gonna mean a thing if I don't get to France, so if you'll excuse me. [she helps him rise and he kisses her hand as he starts to go] Steve Trevor: And if you're ever stateside after this is over, look me up. The name's Trevor. Steve Trevor. In the present... Retirement home attendant: Please keep your visit short. He tires easily. Diana: Thank you. Steve... Steve Trevor tries to remember..."Angel".

That’s enough. Phyllis is planning to retire too, and we want to travel the world. I’m tired of Sterling, Florida, and she’s tired of Mobile. We have no kids to keep us grounded, so why not take off somewhere? Spend some of our Indian money.

It is a tendency identified by the late Australian political philosopher Kenneth Minogue as ‘St George in retirement’ syndrome. After slaying the dragon the brave warrior finds himself stalking the land looking for still more glorious fights. He needs his dragons. Eventually, after tiring himself out

LEGENDS ARE NEVER TIRED AND NEVER RETIRED

We got into an elevator that made clunking noises and moved really slow, like it was tired of being an elevator and wanted to retire and just be a closet or something.

McCall was reelected seven times, that is, until 1972, when Florida Governor Reubin Askew stepped in and suspended him after yet another violent assault on someone in his custody. This time, McCall was indicted for second-degree murder for allegedly kicking a black prisoner to death. The prisoner was in jail for a twenty-six-dollar traffic ticket. McCall was acquitted. But he lost the election that November. Blacks were now able to vote, and they turned out in force to defeat him the first chance they got. “We sent cars out and taxicabs,” Viola Dunham, a longtime resident and a sister-in-law of George Starling, remembered. “We started getting these people out to vote.” Then, too, a new generation of whites had entered the Florida electorate, the younger people who may have identified with the young freedom riders in Mississippi and Alabama even if they would not have participated themselves, and the snowbirds, the white northerners who were buying up vacation homes or retiring to central Florida with the boom that came with the arrival of Disney World and who couldn’t relate to the heavy-handedness of a small-town southern sheriff. And now it seemed that even the most steadfast traditionalists had finally tired of the controversies and felt it was time for him to go. The defeated sheriff retreated to his ranch on Willis V. McCall Road in Eustis, where he tended his citrus grove, welcomed his partisans, and held forth on his decades of lordship over Lake County. He could take comfort in the fact that, for better or for worse, Lake County would not soon forget him, and he took pride in his role of protecting southern tradition.

But I’m tired, I’m overly full from all the food and most of all, I’m worried that my husband might get a little frisky with one more drink inside him. If I go up now, then I can be asleep by the time he retires to bed beside me, and while that might not be fair, it is a fact.

Look, you wake up one day and, and your legs, they just give, and you just can't run anymore.

Donald Bouchoux, a fifty-three-year-old retired navy pilot, saw an emergency oxygen bottle shoot across the hood of his Ford Explorer. James Cissell, in another car, saw a tire rim pass his window. He sat in his car, terrified. As the plane passed by him, he had actually seen the faces of some of the passengers looking helplessly through the windows.

I was tired of looking in the mirror and not liking what I saw.

Francis, however, was tired and bored. He kept yawning and wanted to retire to his chamber before the end of the meal.

popularity with the voters. Had he bowed out, the White House might well have passed to a Republican in 1944. During a brief home leave, his son Franklin told him that everyone in the armed forces would think the President a “quitter” if he retired. Roosevelt expected that if he ran, it would be a close race. He had asked Americans for the most extreme sacrifices, and knew that they might yearn, as in 1920, for normalcy. As Suckley recorded, Franklin remembered Wilson telling him that the public was “willing to be ‘liberal’ about a third of the time, gets tired of new things and reverts to conservatism the other two thirds of the time.” Recent military successes in Europe and the Pacific might cause some voters to conclude that the war was virtually won, and that they therefore could afford to take a chance with the untested Republican nominee, New York Governor Thomas Dewey. With his booming voice, Dewey told convention delegates that Roosevelt’s government had “grown old in office” and “become

Winter comes, you wait for summer; summer comes, you wait for winter! You wait to retire, you wait for the government to change, you wait for the storm to pass, the fog to clear and the sun to come out, and you wait and wait! Don't wait, my friend, aren't you tired of waiting? You've grown old waiting! Live without waiting, leave the winter, the fog, this and that, don't wait!

Her face and the garden Her face is like a summer garden, By divine beauty tended and by grace never forsaken, There bloom roses many, and lilies too, And I keep looking at it, for in spell bound state what else can I do, Yesterday she was a garden of roses, Last year she was the entire spring, where once in bloom, the beauty’s flower never closes, This year she has transformed into a garden blooming with new flowers, Daisies, daffodils, and sunflowers standing like beauty’s radiant towers, Rendered more radiant in the never ending splendour of her eyes, And the garden of beautiful roses growing all over her, even time defies, While I watch the garden of beauty grow over her face, My heart beats assume a new and lovely pace, That draw my mind into this world of endless beauty, And I know not whether it obeys my heart’s yearnings or it too has grown fond of her pure serenity, The summer has found a permanent residence in her face, infact within her, Because I still see the roses blooming over her face although it is late November, And when sometimes she brushes her hair with her fingers, The roses peek from her face to feel her finger tips and their magical wonders, And when she rests her eyelids upon her eyes, The pollen dust of million flowers, upon her waiting eyelashes, a perfect sheen applies, That neither sparkles nor glows, But in the garden of her face it simply in its splendour grows, And when the winter sun gets tired and retires finally, The lilies apply the mask of radiance on her tenderly, While the violets and narcissus seep deep into her brow, And what a wonder she is to look at now, A beauty with no end, where waves of summer flow interminably, As she rests her head on the pillow and closes her eyes slowly, The morning glory turns into the night glory, And then begins our own love story, Where the lovely and winding creepers grow all over us, over her and over me too, Finally the garden of beauty grows all over us, and now it shall be so, no matter what you do, I in the garden of her beauty where flowers bloom everywhere, And then my heart confesses, “Irma, let us hide in this garden somewhere, To be never found by time, and never felt by any season, Because finally we have found love in each other that defies every reason,” And this is how it has been for many years now, I and my every feeling of love sinking deep into her beauty’s eternal brow!

Chastain had watched teammates like Mia Hamm and Julie Foudy end their careers with testimonial matches—the special farewell games that important players earn—but she was never going to get one. Her last game was the final stop of the post-Olympics victory tour in 2004, the same last game as Hamm and Foudy, only Chastain didn’t know it at the time. “It wasn’t on my radar—it wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Chastain says. “He was the assistant coach. I’m not sure how he became coach of the national team, to be honest, and there was no discussion.” Shannon MacMillan, another veteran, tells a similar story. She, too, was surprised to find herself left off rosters, but in her case, it was because Greg Ryan had reassured her that she was in his plans. As time went on and she still hadn’t gotten a call, at age 31 she gave up hope of ever returning to the team. Her career ended at 176 caps. “I was like, Enough’s enough,” she says. “That’s kind of what forced my hand into retiring. I just got sick and tired of the politics and the B.S.

I'm retired, not tired!

booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a squalid tent city that housed vendors hawking tacky artifacts and articles of second-hand clothing. A retired Greyhound coach creaked as it entered the muddy lot, carrying a handful of intrepid tourists and commuters from the coastal suburbs. The tired air brakes hissed their protest as it pulled to a stop and disgorged its cargo, the rusting, graffiti-covered

My dear boys, it's been an exhausting day. I had hoped to spend an evening of love making with you two handsome men but, alas, tonight is not the night. I'm tired and am retiring early, on my own. What plans do you have tomorrow?

When Art Disappears This is the sleeper issue that too few people are talking about, the real reason for the American health-care crisis that lurks right around the corner: An entire generation of doctors in their thirties, forties, and fifties is disenchanted with their profession in ways that could have severe consequences for the long-term health of America. Not because they’re at retirement age, but because they are tired of sacrificing the human side of medicine to the complicated bureaucratic hurdles, clerical demands, and regulatory controls that are defining an ever-growing part of our health-care system today.

Feed your soul through service Sometimes you can work all day and you’ll get tired physically. But there are times when you go out of your way to be a blessing. You get up early to help a coworker. You stop by the hospital and pray for a friend. You mow a neighbor’s lawn after work. Doing all that should make you tired and run-down, but you feel energized, stronger, and refreshed. Why is that? When you do the will of your Father it doesn’t drain you, it replenishes you. You may volunteer in your community each week. You may get up early and go to church on your day off, maybe serving in the children’s ministry after working all week. You may clean houses in the community outreach Saturday morning. You may spend the afternoon at the prison encouraging the inmates. You’d think you would leave tired, worn out, run-down, and needing to go home and rest after volunteering all day. But just like with Jesus, when you help others, you get fed. Strength, joy, energy, peace, wisdom, and healing come to those who serve. You should be run-down, but God reenergizes and refreshes you so that at the end of the day you aren’t down, you are up. You don’t leave low, you leave high. God pays you back. Every time I leave one of our church services, I feel stronger than when I came in. It doesn’t make natural sense. I put out a lot of energy, spend long hours, and shake a lot of hands, but I go home reenergized. Why? Because when you serve others, making their lives better, lifting them, healing those who are hurting, you are blessing them and being blessed yourself. You are being fed. You’re being filled back up. If you’re always tired and run-down, with no energy, it may be that you’re not doing enough for others. You’ve got to get your mind off yourself. Go to a retirement home and cheer up someone who is lonely. Bake your neighbor a cake. Coach the Little League team. Call a friend in the hospital. As you lift others, God will lift you. This should not be something you do every once in a while, when you have extra time. This should be a lifestyle, where it’s a part of your nature. You don’t have to do something big--just small acts of kindness. A simple word of encouragement can make someone’s day.

Live in amazement We all have seen God’s goodness in some way. God opened a door, gave you a promotion, protected you on the freeway, and caused you to meet someone who has been a blessing. It was His hand of favor. Don’t let it become ordinary. We should live in amazing at what God has done. When I look at my children I think, “God, you’re amazing.” When I see Victoria, I think, “God, you’ve been good to me.” Driving up to my house, I think, “Lord, thank you for your favor.” Don’t let your miracles become so common that they don’t excite you anymore. I read about this famous surgeon who continued to go to work every day even into his late eighties. He loved medicine. His staff tried to get him to retire and take it easy, but he wouldn’t do it. He had invented a certain procedure that he had performed over ten thousand times. It seemed so routine and so ordinary. He’d done it again and again. The surgeon was asked in an interview if he ever grew tired of performing his procedure and if it ever got old. He said, “No, because I act like every operation is my very first one.” He was saying, “I don’t take for granted what God has allowed me to do. I don’t let it become so ordinary that I lose the awe.” What has God done for you? Do you have healthy children? Do you have people to love? Do you have a place to work? Do you realize your gifts and talents come from God? Do you recognize what seemed like a lucky break was God directing your steps? There are miracles all around us. Don’t take them for granted. Don’t lose the amazement of God’s works. Fan your flames. Stir up your gifts. Sometimes we hold back, thinking we’ll get excited when the next big thing comes along. Only then will we allow that spring back in our step. But I’ve learned if you aren’t happy where you are, you won’t get where you want to be. You need to sow a seed. Maybe nothing exciting is going on; perhaps you’re facing big challenges. You could easily grow discouraged and give up on your dreams. But when you go to work with a smile, give it your best, offer kindness to others, you are sowing a seed. God will take that seed and grow it to bring something exciting into your life. The scripture tells us God will take us from glory to glory and from victory to victory. You may be in between victories right now, but keep your passion and hold on to your enthusiasm. The good news is another victory is on its way, another level of glory and another level of God’s favor.

All categories of writers never become tired and retired.

Love never become, tired and retired; otherwise, it stays out of the truth and reality.

If ye are tired then ye are welcome to retire early.