By the time I'm 40, interplanetary travel will be common. Nobody

The words of Ace Frehley, spoken half in jest and half in yearning, carry the echo of a man who gazed toward the stars yet felt the chains of time upon his soul. “By the time I’m 40, interplanetary travel will be common. Nobody will want to talk to me at that age, anyway.” These words reveal not only a prophecy of progress but also a lamentation of solitude. They are the utterance of one who knows that youth burns bright, but fears the dimming flame of age. His quote binds together two themes: the boundless reach of human ambition and the loneliness of being cast aside when that ambition no longer burns in the eyes of others.

Consider first his belief in interplanetary travel. The ancients dreamed of Olympus and the heavens, and in their myths they placed gods upon the stars. Frehley, living in the age of rockets and moon landings, simply gave that dream a modern tongue. To him, the future belonged to explorers who would pierce the veil of space. He believed that progress would outpace the slow turning of his mortal years, so that by the time he grew old, mankind would stride upon new worlds. There is hope in such words, for they reveal that humanity’s destiny is ever upward, ever outward, like the eternal fire of Prometheus.

Yet the second half of his words strike like a cold wind: “Nobody will want to talk to me at that age, anyway.” Here the fire dims, and we hear the voice of one who feels time’s cruelty. In every age, men and women fear the silence that comes when youth has passed. The Greeks knew this when they told of Achilles, who chose a short life of glory over a long one of obscurity. Frehley feared not only being forgotten but being left behind, while the world rushed forward into its bold new frontier. His jest hides sorrow, as though he already foresaw the fading of his own star.

History teaches us this lesson again and again. Recall Nikola Tesla, whose brilliance lit the world with electric fire, but who in his final years sat alone in a hotel room, feeding pigeons, forgotten by the multitudes who once praised him. His inventions carried mankind into a new age, yet the man himself grew old in solitude. The story of Tesla mirrors Frehley’s lament: when progress gallops forward, the creators often stand abandoned, while the crowd rushes to cheer the next marvel. This is the silent tragedy of human progress—it does not always honor the elders who prepared its way.

But we must not despair. Instead, let us take from Frehley’s words a shield against the fear of being cast aside. For though youth fades and attention shifts, wisdom deepens with years. A tree does not bloom forever, yet its roots hold firm, nourishing the soil for new life. In the same way, the elder who shares his voice and memory becomes the foundation upon which younger dreamers rise. To speak is to endure, and to guide others is to find meaning that outlasts fleeting applause.

The lesson is thus: pursue wonder, but do not measure your worth by the noise of the crowd. Strive boldly, like the voyagers who seek other planets, but also embrace the silence, for within it lies strength. Do not fear age, for it is the cloak of wisdom. Even if the world forgets your name, the seeds you plant—whether in words, deeds, or kindness—will grow long after you depart. The truest immortality is not in being remembered, but in shaping the world for those yet to come.

Practical action lies before us. Seek knowledge each day, so that when youth is gone, your mind burns brighter than your body. Share your story, even when you believe none listen—for words echo longer than applause. Honor your elders, as you hope one day to be honored. And above all, pursue a dream greater than yourself, so that when you speak of the stars, it will not matter if mankind has reached them yet—you will already have traveled there in spirit.

Thus the quote of Ace Frehley is not mere jest, but a mirror: it shows us our hunger for discovery, and our fear of loneliness. To the listener, let it be both warning and inspiration. For the years pass quickly, the stars rise slowly, and the measure of a life is not whether others wish to talk to you at forty, but whether your soul still sings of the heavens at eighty. Chase the stars, but never abandon the wisdom of time.