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Memory is the first casualty of middle age, if I remember correctly.

There is something dark and wintry about the atmosphere of the later Middle Ages.

We owe to the Middle Ages the two worst inventions of humanity - romantic love and gunpowder.

What progress we are making. In the Middle Ages they would have burned me. Now they are content with burning my books.

If it were a real effort to live in the Middle Ages, your life would be one perpetual prevarication.

The histories which we have of the great tragedy give no idea of the general wretchedness, the squalid misery, which entered into every individual life in the region given up to the war. Where the armies camped the destruction was absolute.

I'll never forget anything about Middle Earth. That's part of my memory now so I won't miss anything.

Have we so soon forgotten those four years of terrible carnage, the greatest war of all time; forgotten the millions of men who gave their lives, who made the supreme sacrifice and who today, beneath the soil of France and Belgium, sleep the eternal sleep?

We in middle age require adventure.

Few of us will forget the wail of mingled grief, rage and horror which rose from the camp when the Indians returned to it and recognized their slaughtered warriors, women, and children.