Quotes About Memories

Case watched the sun rise on the landscape of childhood, on broken slag and the rusting shells of refineries.

For some reason, now, she saw the panel in the Roberts, all those faces. Read Us the Book of the Names of the Dead. All the Marlys, she thought all the girls she'd been through the long season of youth.

I understood Fox's late-night habit of emptying his wallet, shuffling through his identification. He'd lay the pieces out in different patterns, rearrange them, wait for a picture to form. I knew what he was looking for. You did the same thing with your childhoods, [Sandii]. In New Rose, tonight, I choose from your deck of pasts

His mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink.

The Thieves Quarter was worse than he remembered. Always, before, Fezzik had been with him, and they made rhymes, and Fezzik was enough to keep any thief away. Inigo moved panicked up the dark streets, desperately afraid.

The history of all love is writ with one pen.

And I cannot touch her face  And I cannot touch her hair, And I kneel to empty shadows-- Just memories of her grace; And her voice sings in the winds And in the sobs of dawn And among the flowers at night And from the brooks at sunrise And from the sea at sunset, And I answer with vain callings  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Scenes An old house in a run-down neighborhood of a Midwestern city.

Home is where the house is.

Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

The return to anywhere you last visited as a child is difficult, especially when it's a door. Your heart beats harder when you knock.

In time, in time they tell me, I'll not feel so bad. I don't want time to heal me. There's a reason I'm like this. I want time to set me ugly and knotted with the loss of you, marking me. I won't smooth you away. I can't say goodbye.

He glanced beyond the walls, at the strange night, in which gods were ignored and memories were out hunting the future.

In time, in time they tell me, I'll not feel so bad. I don't want time to heal me. There's a reason I'm like this. I want time to set me ugly and knotted with loss of you, marking me. I won't smooth you away. I can't say good-bye.

Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

The costumes raised memories of the Night of the Kinken Shards, when the New Quill Party had overrun the khepri ghetto in a storm of murder, shattering spit-sculptures in the Plaza of Statues, stamping the mindless males and butchering the women until they trod a ground of glass needles, ichor, blood.

Sometimes I'd go to his house. If I had some cool cards in my pack of Iceberg Updates, we'd compare collections, maybe swap a few.

In time, in time they tell me, I'll not feel so bad. I don't want time to heal me. There's a reason I'm like this. I want time to set me ugly and knotted with loss of you, marking me. I won't smooth you away. I can't say goodbye.

It felt like being a child again, though it was not. Being a child is like nothing. It's only being. Later, when we think about it, we make it into youth.

All that had taken place in many years of life at Boranly-Burannyi junction, all this great strain over a long time, all the troubles, difficulties and joys he had lived through - all this had to be expressed in a few words of farewell in the few minutes of laying to rest. How much, yet how little, is given to a man!

Our lives are measured in moments, and defining moments are the ones that endure in our memories.

You will be remembered for causing the greatest war of your time.

It feels as though it were just yesterday Grandfather exited my life like a bullet, leaving a bleeding hole behind.

I long to stretch out on the sofa, wrapping myself in the red quilt that's lying there. Then, with a stab, I recognize the quilt. My father had brought it back from a business trip he took to New England long ago. Ironic, how objects remain in your life long after people have exited.