Through the nearly two decades I have been studying (or researching or reading or whatever this continuing interest

is) aging, I have collected a good-sized li brary of related books. Mixed among the practical, the journalistic, scholarly and political are memoirs , autobiographies, journals, chronicles, meditations, contemplations, reflection s and a few novels about aging written by old people you know, the real experts on this stage of life. It is a shame to leave them on a shelf when I'm finished reading, so beginning t oday, Elder Prose Interlude will join the occasional Elder Poetry Interlude I've been publishing recently. I hope you will enjoy these. By Florida Scott-Maxwell We are people to whom something important is about to happen. But before then, th ese endless years before the end, can we summon enough merit to warrant a place for ourselves? We go into the future not knowing the answer to our question. * * * Age puzzles me. I thought it was a quiet time. My seventies were interesting, and fairly serene, but my eighties are passionate. I grow more intense as I age. To my own surprise I burst out with hot conviction. * * * My dear fellow octogenarians, how are we to carry so much life, and what are we t o do with it? Let no one say it is 'unlived life' with any of the simpler psychological certitu des. No one lives all the life of which he was capable. The unlived life in each of us must be the future of humanity. When truly old, too frail to use the vigour that pulses in us, and weary, sometim es even scornful of what can seem the pointless activity of mankind, we may sink down to some deeper level and find a new supply of life that amazes us. All is uncharted and uncertain, we seem to lead the way into the unknown. * * * Age is truly a time of heroic helplessness. One is confronted by one's own incorr igibility. I am always saying to myself, 'Look at you, and after a lifetime of t rying.' I still have the vices that I have known and struggled with well it seem s like since birth. Many of them are modified, but not much. I can neither order nor command the hubbub of my mind. Or is it my nervous sensib ility? This is not the effect of age; age only defines one's boundaries. Life ha s changed me greatly, it has improved me greatly, but it has also left me practi cally the same. I cannot spell. I am over critical, egocentric and vulnerable. I cannot be simple . In my effort to be clear I become complicated. I know my faults so well that I pay them small heed. They are stronger than I am. They are me. * * * When a new disability arrives I look about me to see if death has come, and I cal l quietly, 'Death, is that you? Are you there?' So far the disability has answer ed, 'Don't be silly, it's me.'