Middle age is the most awkward phase—too old to stay asleep past dawn, too old to feel deeply though prone to sighing, too old for rage though prone to sorrow.

Middle age kisses a woman’s forehead, not her lips; it swallows stomach pills with strong coffee.

Middle age is an afternoon tea—forgotten are childhood breakfasts of congee or steamed buns; the rich lunches of youth, braised pork knuckles and scallion-mutton, still linger undigested; the dinners of old age, steamed grouper or stewed tofu, remain undecided; and the late-night snacks beyond eighty seem vaguer still: a biscuit? A glass of milk? This afternoon tea, then, stirs a cup of memories, slices a portion of nostalgia, and squeezes drops of hope.

Middle age is when distractions grow longer and essays grow shorter.

Middle age is an appointment kept without expectation: "You came? Fine. Better if you hadn’t!"

"A few tattered books, half a window’s cold candlelight, a desolate study"—this is middle age. The Book of Jin recounts: "On the seventh day of the seventh month, the wealthy northern Ruan family sunned splendid silks that dazzled the eye. [The poor] hung coarse breeches on poles in their yards. When questioned, they replied: ‘Could not escape custom—did this half-heartedly!’" When others flaunt finery, those with little must make do with rags.