Quotes About Memories

One of my earliest childhood memories is getting birdshot picked out of my backside by my mother, Mary. My mother would say, "Tom, how come I'm always picking this stuff out of Francis's behind?" My father, who always called her Mame, would say, "Because the boy doesn't run fast enough, Mame." I get my size

Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.

Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.

I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

It's the bad place I always come back to in my dreams.

Nowadays I feel like an old-timer in terms of estrangement. I don't know what determines meaning in the city any better than these old people with their attenuating memories. Probably traffic laws, the way we still agree to agree on the detonation of stop signs.

But the little girl growing up still hisses a tune, that of the cottage train. (Mais la petite fille qui grandit siffle toujours un air, celui du train de la chaumière)"

We're all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It's a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it's true, but then so's everything.

There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.

He was consious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares, long, long, forgotten.

The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we have only seen as children always do I believe when we go back to them

Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

For the rest of his life, Oliver Twist remembers a single word of blessing spoken to him by another child because this word stood out so strikingly from the consistent discouragement around him.

This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life.

In a word, it was impossible for me to separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life of my life.

the dreams of childhood - it's airy fables, its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond; so good to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown...

The dreams of childhood—its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed-in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown, for the least among them rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering the little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world

What an unsubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one retrospection I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.

Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one

But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.

Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded together,

non sono vecchio, ma le vie della mia giovinezza non sono state mai di quelle che portano alla vecchiaia

Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?