Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in general, we are wishing every period of it at an end. The minor longs to be at age, then to be a man of business, then to make up an estate, then to arrive at honors, then to retire.

I have known not a few men who, after reaching the summits of business success, found themselves miserable on attaining retirement age. They were so exclusively engrossed in their day-to-day affairs that they had no time for friend-making. They may flatter themselves that their unrelaxing concentration on business constitutes patriotism of the highest order. They

The greatest danger to an adequate old-age security plan is rising prices. A rise of 2 per cent a year in prices would cut the purchasing power of pensions about 45 per cent in thirty years. The greatest danger of rising prices is from wages rising faster than output per man-hour. Whether the nation succeeds

In the beginning, there was no retirement. There were no old people. In the Stone Age, everyone was fully employed until age twenty, by which time nearly everyone was dead, usually of unnatural causes. Any early man who lived long enough to develop crow’s-feet was either worshiped or eaten as a sign of respect.

I think “retirement” goes hand in hand with people who make a living by having a “job.” I don’t think we – the .00001 percent of the population who are so fortunate to love passionately what we do – consider it a “job.”

Like it or not, whatever identity we have in this country, especially for men, comes from what we do for a living. It’s among the first questions we ask and are asked. “Retired” is not an identity, it’s the lack of one. It’s Limbo, the waiting room for the Beyond. The best thing about it

That everyone earning should contribute to Social Security is indisputable; that everyone, regardless of how he’s financially fixed at retirement age, should collect Social Security is indisputably wrong. As it was well put in Washington Monthly, Social Security’s a device for taking money from present workers to support retired ones. Fair enough. But by what

Men in the uniform of Wall Street retirement: black Chesterfield coat, rimless glasses and the Times folded to the obituary page.

The first years of man make provision for the last.

Retirement at 65 is ridiculous. When I was 65 I still had pimples.