A Quote by James Earl Jones

There's nothing I would retire for, so I won't retire. — © James Earl Jones
There's nothing I would retire for, so I won't retire.
People say, 'Oh, so you should retire.' Yeah, you want me to retire so you won't get knocked out. I won't retire.
Retire? Retire from What? Life? I will only retire when I am dead!
Let me put it this way: I don't plan to retire. What would I do, become a brain surgeon? I mean, a brain surgeon can retire and write novels, but a novelist can't retire and do brain surgery - or at least he better not.
I wish I could say farewell and retire but there is nothing for me to retire from.
Faithful servants never retire. You can retire from your career, but you will never retire from serving God.
When I retire, my CV might have a few holes, things I haven't achieved that I would have felt I needed to do, but I won't know if I did need to do them until I retire.
I'll never retire. I'm just using up somebody else's oxygen if I retire.
You can retire from a job, but don't ever retire from making extremely meaningful contributions in life.
We need more cartoonists to truly retire when they retire, and not run repeats.
Nothing embitters my old age [like] the circulation of absurd stories that I retire as civilization advances, that I shun the white men and seek the Indians, and that now even when old, I seek to retire beyond the second Alleganies.
We'll all retire from life at some point. The great thing about acting is you don't necessarily have to retire.
Of course I can't retire on a win - but then, I can't retire on a loss either.
Journalists don't retire, writers don't retire. I'm still hoping for that other big story. There's always one just around the corner.
A lot of people want to retire; I couldn't. You don't retire in our business. What, play golf and watch television? Oh, please.
Retire to what? I'm a golfer and a fisherman. I've got no place to retire to.
When shall I at last retire into solitude alone, without companions, without joy and without sorrow, with only the sacred certainty that all is a dream? When, in my rags—without desires—shall I retire contented into the mountains? When, seeing that my body is merely sickness and crime, age and death, shall I—free, fearless, and blissful—retire to the forest? When? When, oh when?
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