Pleasure in old things

Recently I read a couple of novels by Nevil Shute.  I was taken with this paragraph at the beginning of Chapter 2 of Requiem for a Wren: 

As old age had crept upon my father and mother they had reduced the scale of their expenditure upon themselves to quite a small proportion of their net income. They never had kept racehorses as many of our neighbours do, and they had outgrown the pleasures of spending money.

They got a book each month through the Book Society and they bought a few gramaphone records when they were in Melbourne, but with increasing years and infirmity they got more pleasure out of old things than new, out of old books that they had read fifteen or twenty years before and turned back to now with pleasure, out of old gramophone records, out of furniture that they had bought thirty years ago when they took over Coombargana.

It's not great literature, but I like the sentiment. It's true for me, I think, or is at least becoming more so.