From a letter Charles Bukowski, at age 64, sent to his publisher in 1971: 

“I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I’m gone) how I’ve come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die.

“To not to have entirely wasted one’s life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself.” (Source: Letters of Note)