I would like not to forget this passage from the novel I am reading right now, by Peter Høeg:
"That summer, for the first time, he saw his own age, objectively, in the eyes of these people; a sight which led him to doubt whether he had ever been young. He was seized by the uncertainty that strikes us all sooner or later, and particularly those of us involved in recounting unlikely extracts of the truth. He was no longer sure that once he had, in fact, roamed these parts with his own circus and presented the wonders of the seven seas and wild beasts from far-flung continents and the world's most beautiful women to these yokels whom he now endeavoured to delight by imitating the roars of his long-lost lions and by telling them of the circus princesses - all now dead - whose radiant beauty had once had their yokel forebears' tongues hanging out. Now they did not so much as flicker an eyelid, so sure were they that they had, in newspapers and books and at the great exhibitions, seen all - or at least, almost all - there was to see."