Quotes About Memory

Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be -- more rich and meaningful the farther back it was.

Oh, strawberries don't taste as they used to and the thighs of women have lost their clutch! And

Oh, but strawberries will never taste so good again and the thighs of women have lost their clutch!

Memory of the knife will be gone when the flesh is gone.

I printed it once more on my eyes, south, west, and north, and then we hurried away from the permanent and changeless past where my mother is always shooting a wildcat and my father is always burning his name with his love.

Pre-Cambrian Memory.

Life cannot be cut off quickly. One cannot be dead until the things he changed are dead.

Ä°ÅŸe en ba??ndan baÅŸla ve hat?rlayabildiÄŸin her ÅŸeyi sonuna kadar akl?nda geçir. Zihnine geri geldikçe ayn? ÅŸeyi baÅŸtan sona tekrarla. Bir süre sonra yorulur, parça parça silinir, çok geçmeden tümüyle kaybolur.

Tom Wolfe was right," he reflected. "You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

Give a little party," she insisted. "Just a small affair. Nobody will dress. It's the anniversary of the founding of the Bloomer League—you didn't even remember that." "It's no use," said Tom.

We each peeled a stick and solemnly chewed it; it was Beeman's peppermint, and nothing so delicious has been made since.

They reminded him of something—what was it?—some memory, some picture. He strove to find it and then it came of itself. It rose out of the years complete with all its colours and its cries, its crowded feelings.

In all such local tragedies time works like a damp brush on water color. The sharp edges blur, the ache goes out of it, the colors melt together, and from the many separated lines a solid gray emerges.

I don't want to be forgotten, Henry. That is greater horror to an old man than death--to be forgotten.

I remember as a child reading or hearing the words 'The Great Divide' and being stunned by the glorious sound, a proper sound for the granite backbone of a continent.

How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past? No. Leave it. Burn it.

For some reason he remembered the Mexican name for carnations. Somebody must have told him when he was a kid. They were called Nails of Love ---and marigolds , the Nails of Death. It was a word lie nails---claveles. Maybe he'd better put marigolds on his mothers grave.

Fella can get so he misses the noise of a saw mill

It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.

people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.

Take it's something kind of long—you start at the beginning and remember everything you can, right to the end. Every time it comes back you do that, from the first right through the finish. Pretty soon it'll get tired and pieces of it will go, and before long the whole thing will go." I tried it and it worked. I don't know whether the headshrinkers know this but they should.

I do wonder if the stab of memory doesn't strike him high in the stomach just below the ribs where it hurts. And in the humid ever-summer I dare his picturing mind not to go back to the shout of color, to the clean rasp of frosty air, to the smell of pine wood burning and the caressing warmth of kitchens. For how can one know color in perpetual green, and what good is warmth without cold to give it sweetness?

A man's mind vagued up a little, for how can you remember the feel of pleasure or pain or choking emotion? You can remember only that you had them.

I thought my blood must survive—my line—but it's not so. My knowledge, yes—the long knowledge remembered, repeated, the pride, yes, the pride and warmth, Mordeen, warmth and companionship and love so that the loneliness we wear like icy clothes is not always there. These I can give.