Quotes About Memories

Life had gone on. It always did. that's what you learned as you got older. Time. It kept moving. You wished you could change. They were gone. They left you in a snap.

Is it too late?" I asked Margot Cherry that afternoon. It's been more than thirty years and still I can remember how my voice shook. "How do we know when we've loved someone all that we can?

in a snap the world can fall down around you and leave you, for years and years, trying to get back to a place where once upon a time you were happy.

in a snap the world can fall dwon around you and leave you, for years and years, trying to get back to a place where once upon a time you were happy.

The love she had felt for him in the past was still there within her, covered over now like a bandaged wound, not yet healed underneath and perhaps still easily reopened.

No real ghosts, Ted told himself. Memories were the only ghosts adults had: Memories and regrets.

Listen, everything I did in my childhood was competitive. Everything we did my dad made it into a game to win. We used to drive my mum nuts.

When life's summer grows to winter And its roses fade and fall; When in vain we try to hinder Death's commissioned right to all; When on white lips there's a last kiss And we see her face no more, Then it is to know what love is, Waiting on a foreign shore.

Home! By what magic comes this spell? What wand has touched these humble walls, And made them glow as with a holy warmth? What disembodied spirit glorifies the place? Whose feet may claim the phantom echoes That bring once more a thrill? Whose memoried voice is this that holds More sacred music in its roughest note Than ever came from seraph's throat?

I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers.

Once in my life I knew a grief so hard I could actually hear it inside, scraping at the lining of my stomach, an audible ache, dredging with hooks as rivers are dredged when someone's been missing too long. I have to think my mother felt something like that.

That was a great time, the summer of '71 - I can't remember it, but I'll never forget it!

One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening–the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life–and can never find again.

Grief, a type of sadness that most often occurs when you have lost someone you love, is a sneaky thing, because it can disappear for a long time, and then pop back up when you least expect it.

I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before than, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar marks the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area.

For Beatrice- When we were together I felt breathless. Now you are.

I think we'll always miss our parents. But I think we can miss them without being miserable all the time. After all, they wouldn't want us to be miserable.

The last time I saw you, I was trying to throw thumbtacks into your cradle!

I am certain that over the course of your own life, you have noticed that people's rooms reflect their personalities. In my room, for instance, I have gathered a collection of objects that are important to me, including a dusty accordion on which I can play a few sad songs, a large bundle of notes on the activities of the Baudelaire orphans, and a blurry photograph, taken a very long time ago, of a woman whose name is Beatrice. These are items that are very precious and dear to me.

It is the things that have a history, L. Compared to them we are ghosts.

The sea... some have said is nothing but a library of all the tears in history.

The Baudelaires were sad to see a framed photograph of a kind-looking man with a handful of crackers in one hand and his lips pursed as if he were whistling. It was Ike, and the Baudelaires knew that she had placed his photograph there because she was too sad to look at it.

It is one thing to think horrible thoughts, but it is another to behave atrociously, as you know. You can easily think of times when you were horrible, and when I say easily I mean it is very easy to remember these times and hard to stop remembering. They ache in the brain and the body, these shameful memories, like a broken bone that has never quite healed right.

So it goes,' Prosper Lost said, a little sadly. 'There are some stories you never get to finish.