"Twenty-nine’s Fell Shadow! O, inhospitably final year of any Pretense to Youth, its Dreams now, how wither’d away … tho’ styl’d a Prime yet bid’st thou Adieu to the Prime of Life! … There, - there, in the Stygian Mists of Futurity, loometh the dread Thirty, - Transition unspeakable! Prime so soon fallen, thy Virtue so easily broken, into a Number divisible, - penetrable! - by six others!"
- Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon
"Twenty-nine clouds. At twenty-nine a man was in his thirtieth year. And he was twenty-nine. And now at last, though the feeling had perhaps been growing on him all morning, he knew what it felt like, the intolerable impact of this knowledge that might have come at twenty-two, but had not, that ought at least to have come at twenty-five, but still somehow had not, this knowledge, hitherto associated only with people tottering on the brink of the grave and A.E. Housman, that one could not be young forever - that indeed, in the twinkling of an eye, one was not young any longer. For in less than four years, passing so swiftly to-day’s cigarette seemed smoked yesterday, one would be thirty-three, in seven more, forty; in forty-seven, eighty. Sixty-seven years seemed a comfortingly long time but then he would be a hundred. I am not a prodigy any longer."
- Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano