Archive for the '34 Years Old' Category

Thirty-Four Year Old – Charles Ryder

 

‘So you’re being divorced,’ said my father. ‘Isn’t that rather unnecessary, after you’ve been happy together all these years?’

‘We weren’t particularly happy, you know.’

‘Weren’t you? Were you not? I distinctly remember last Christmas seeing you together and thinking how happy you looked, and wondering why. You’ll find it very disturbing, you know, starting off again. How old are you – thirty-four? That’s no age for starting. You ought to be settling down. Have you made any plans?’

‘Yes, I’m marrying again as soon as the divorce is through.’

‘Well, I do call that a lot of nonsense. I can understand a man wishing he hadn’t married and trying to get out of it – though I never anything of the kind myself – but to get rid of one wife and take up with another immediately, is beyond all reason. Celia was always perfectly civil to me. I had quite a liking for her, in a way. If you couldn’t be happy with her why on earth should you expect to be happy with anyone else? Take my advice, dear boy, and give up the whole idea.’

Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder

Published in: 34 Years Old | on June 5th, 2010 | No Comments »

Thirty-Four Year Old – Cass Silenski

 

At Twelfth Street and Seventh Avenue she made the driver carry her one block more, to the box office of the Loew’s Sheridan; then she paid him and walked out and actually climbed the stairs to the balcony of this hideous place of worship, and sat down. She lit a cigarette, glad of the darkness but not protected by it; and she watched the screen, but all she saw were the extraordinary wiggles of a girl whose name, incredibly enough, appeared to be Doris Day. She thought, irrelevantly, I never should come to movies, I can’t stand them, and then she began to cry. She wept looking straight ahead, this latter rain coming between her and James Cagney’s great, red face, which seemed, at least, thank heaven, to be beyond the possibilities of make-up. Then she looked at her watch, noting that it was exactly eight o’clock. Is that good or bad? she wondered idiotically – knowing, which was always part of her trouble, that she was being idiotic. My God, you’re thirty-four years old, go on downstairs and call him. But she forced herself to wait, wondering all the time if she were waiting too long or would be calling too early.

James Baldwin, Another Country

Published in: 34 Years Old | on June 5th, 2010 | No Comments »