1. 
    The only other thing I remember about my life up to the age of five was getting into a temper and cutting a hated pair of knickers to pieces. They were green stockinet and laddered delightfully as I snipped, but the retributions were frightful. We were not a smacking family; our punishments were cancelled treats, and I was deprived of a longed-for children's Christmas party. I could not even accidentally break a cup or glass with impunity, and even today the smashing of crockery, which gets such a laugh in a TV sit-corn, gets only a shudder from me. I was frightened of my parents, being born too soon for Dr. Spook. I caught the tail end of the Victorian philosophy that parents were perfect, and children always in the wrong, a righteous target for round-the-clock criticism. This made me very shy in company, and as a child I had none of the social ease of my lucky grandchildren, who assume unless it is proved to be contrary that grown-ups are their friends.

2. 
    How comforting it is to see s cheerful and contented old age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tempered through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening of his days! His happiness, however, sprung from within himself, and was independent of external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven, spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather.
    On inquiring further about him I learned that he was a universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tavern room; where delighted the rustics with his songs, and like Sinbard, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were favorable; and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry.

3.  September 11 delivered both a shock and a surprise—the attack and our response to it—and we can argue forever over which mattered more. There has been so much talk of the goodness that erupted that we forget how unprepared we were for it. We did not expect much from a generation that had spent its middle age examining "all the ways it failed to measure up to the one that had come before—all fat, no muscle, less a beacon to the world than a bully, drunk on blessings taken for granted.
    It was tempting to say that Sept. 11 changed all that, just as it is tempting to say that every hero needs a villain, and goodness needs evil as its grinding stone. But try looking a widow in the eye and talking about all the good that has come of this. It may not be a coincidence, but neither is it a partnership: good does not need evil, we owe no debt to demons, and the attack did not make us better. It was an occasion to discover what we already were. The terrorists were counting our cowardice. They have learned a lot about us since then. And so have we.

4.  Psychologically there are two dangers to be guarded against in old age. One of these is undue absorption in the past. It does not do to live in memories, in regrets for the good old days, or in sadness about friends who are dead. One's thoughts must be directed to the future, and to things about which there is something to be done. This is not always easy: one's own past is a gradually increasing weight. It is easy to think to oneself that one's emotions used to be more vivid than they are, and one's mind more keen. If this is true it should be forgotten, and if it is forgotten it will probably not be true.
    The other thing to be avoided is clinging to youth in the hope of sucking vigor from its vitality. When your children are grown up they want to live their own lives, and if you continue to be as interested in them as you were when they were young, you are likely to become a burden to them, unless they are unusually callous. I do not mean that one should be without interest in them, but one's interest should be contemplative and, if possible, philanthropic, but not unduly emotional. Animals become indifferent to their young as soon as their young can look after themselves, but human beings, owing to the length of infancy, find this difficult.
    I think that a successful old age is easier for those who have strong impersonal interests involving appropriate activities. It is in this sphere that long experience is really fruitful, and it is in this sphere that the wisdom born of experience can be exercised without being oppressive. It is no use telling grown up children not to make mistakes, both because they will not believe you, and because mistakes are an essential part of education. But if you are one of those who are incapable of impersonal interests, you may find that your life will be empty unless you concern yourself with your children and grandchildren. In that case you must realize that while you can still render them material services, such as making them an allowance or knotting them jumpers, you must not expect that they will enjoy your company.
    The best way to overcome the fear of death—so at least it seems to me—is to make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life.

5.  Future historians, I hope, will consider the American fast food industry a relic of the 20th century—a set of attitudes, systems, and beliefs that emerged from postwar southern California, that embodied its limitless faith in technology, that quickly spread across the globe, flourished briefly, and then receded, once its true costs became clear and its thinking became obsolete. We cannot ignore the meaning of mad cow, it is one more warning about unintended consequences, about human arrogance and the blind worship of science. The same mind-set that would add beef to your chicken nuggets would also feed pigs to cows. Whatever replaces the fast food industry should be regional, diverse, authentic, unpredictable, sustainable, profitable, and humble. It should know its limits. People can be fed without being fattened or deceived. This new century may bring an impatience with conformity, a refusal to be kept in the dark, less greed, more compassion, less speed, more common sense, a sense of humor about brand essences and loyalties, a view of food as more than just fuel. Things don't have to be the way they are. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I remain optimistic.

6. 
    You've been in love, of course! If not you've got it to come. Love is like the measles; we all have to go through it. Also like the measles, we take it only once. One never need be afraid of catching it a second time. The man who has had it can go into the most dangerous places, and play the most fool-hardy tricks with perfect safety. He can, to see the last of a friend, venture into the very jaws of the marriage ceremony itself. He can keep his head through the whirl of a ravishing waltz, and rest afterwards in a dark conservatory, catching nothing more lasting than a cold.
    No, we never sicken with love twice. Cupid spends no second arrow on the same heart. Love's handmaids are our life-long friends. Respect, and Admiration, and Affection, our doors may always be left open for, but their great celestial master, in his royal progress, pays but one visit, and departs. Meteor-like, it blazes for a moment, and lights with its glory the whole world beneath. Happy those who, hastening down again e'er it dies out, can kindle their earthly altars at its flame. Love is too pure a light to burn long among the noisome gases that we breathe, but before it is choked out we may use it as a torch to ignite the cozy fire of affection.

7.  This definition (of intellectual) excludes many individuals usually referred to as intellectuals—the average scientist for one. I have excluded him because while his accomplishments may contribute to the solution of moral problems, he has not been charged with the task of approaching any but the factual aspects of those problems. Like other human beings, he encounters moral issues even in everyday performance of his problems of his routine duties—he is not supposed to cook his experiments. Manufacture evidence, or doctor his reports. But his primary task is not to think about the moral code, which governs his activity, any more than a businessman is expected to dedicate his energies to an exploration of rules of conduct in business. During most of his walking life he will take his energies to an exploration of rules of conduct in business and he will take his code for granted, as the businessman takes his ethics.
    The definition also excludes the majority of factors, despite the fact that teaching has traditionally been the method whereby many intellectuals earn their living. They may learn very well, and more than earn their salaries, but most of them make little or no independent reflections on human problems which involve moral judgment. This description even fits the majority eminent scholars. Being learned in some branch of human knowledge in one thing; living in "public and industrious thoughts." Emerson would say, is something else.