Quotes About Memories

Vielleicht war er ja noch da, irgendwo hinter ihren geschlossenen Lidern, vielleicht klebte ja noch etwas Glueck an ihren Wimpern, wie Goldstaub. Liessen Traeume in den Maerchen nicht manchmal so ertwas zurueck?

Was she happy? Yes. And no. Because now the words were back, and with them the name that had spun gold around her heart for so long she hardly remembered how things had felt before him.

Das Buch wird anfangen, deine Erinnerungen zu sammeln. Du wirst es spaeter nur aufschlagen muessen und schon wirst du wieder dort sein, wo du zuerst darin gelesen hast. An nichts haften Erinnerungen so gut wie an bedruckten Seiten.

And the pain was back again, and time, and longing too.

an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it … yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." He

How could it be true that [he] was dead, and how would it feel to have him dead in her heart forever?

Quando ti porti dietro un libro» le aveva rivelato Mo quando Meggie ci aveva messo dentro il primo «avviene qualcosa di straordinario: le sue pagine raccoglieranno i tuoi ricordi. E un giorno ti basterà risfogliarle per tornare con il pensiero al luogo dove le hai lette per la prima volta: le immagini, gli odori, il gelato che ti eri gustata... Credimi, i libri sono un po' come la carta moschicida: a nient'altro i ricordi restano attaccati come alla carta stampata.»

No. Nothing could make it easier. You lost what you loved. That was death, here as well as there.

forget them, or the loss of them all will drive you mad. But his heart simply did not obey. Memories, so sweet and so bitter … they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time came when they began to fade, turning faint and blurred, only an ache to be quickly pushed away because it went to your heart. For what was the use of remembering all you had lost?

I libri la rincuoravano quando era triste e scacciavano la noia mentre Mo tagliava, rilegava, incollava pagine ormai logore, rese fragili da anni e anni d'uso sotto le innumerevoli dita che le avevano sfogliate.

He closed the window, and the scents of the past again flooded the room, like a bunch of wilted flowers.

If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it …

A nada se pegan tan bien los recuerdos como a las páginas impresas.

sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice-cream you ate while you were reading it … yes, books are like flypapers. Memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.

Then she was gone, and Violante was already missing her as the door closed. 'So?' she thought. 'Is there any feeling you understand better? Losing people and missing them -- that's what your life consists of.

Quando ti porti dietro un libro avviene qualcosa di straordinario: le sue pagine raccoglieranno i tuoi ricordi. E un giorno ti basterà risfogliarle per tornare col pensiero al luogo dove le hai lette per la prima volta.

If you take a book with you on a journey, an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.

The most painful aspect of exile was how home became a dream, cleansed of all that was bad. One never returned to the dream one had nurtured over centuries, but to a reality that would always look shabby compared to the romanticized memories.

You'd like him back, too, wouldn't you? It was difficult for her to turn her eyes away from Farid's face. He'll never come back, she whispered, and look at Dustfinger. She didn't have the strength to speak any louder. All her strength was gone, as if Farid had taken it away with him. He had taken everything away from him.

If you take a book with you on a journey…an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you only have to open that book to be back where you first read it.

If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like

Memories. They were all she had left. No more tangible than the pictures conjured up by books. But what would be left if she lost those memories too?

It was good to have your books with you in strange places.

Losing people and missing them — that's what your life consists of.