Quotes About Memories

To lose someone you love Is to alter your life forever... The pain stops, there are new people, But the gap never closes... This hole in your hear is the shape of the one you lost- No one else can fit it.

Our memories change as we do.

But the rags and the ribbons turn to years and then the years are gone.

In cetatea cuvintelor despre care v-am povestit, mirosul de fragi era mirosul caracteristic casei despre care inca nu v-am povestit.

No hay día que no recuerde con gozo y ternura aquel único y breve tiempo de mi vida en que fui plenamente yo, sin mezcla y sin traba, y en que puedo realmente decir que he vivido.

If I could have seen her just once again I should have been content to die at that moment.

Las distracciones de mis diarios paseos se han llenado a menudo de encantadoras contemplaciones cuyo recuerdo me lastimo de haber perdido. Fijaré por medio de la escritura las que aún me vengan a la mente; gozaré cada vez que las relea.

And you, Mackie," said the doctor. "It's been a long time.

Every time she thought about him, she felt a thud of pain, like a bruised place inside her.

A slice of cake never made anyone fat. You don't eat the whole cake. You don't eat a cake every day of your life. You take the cake when it is offered because the cake is delicious. You have a slice of cake and what it reminds you of is someplace that's safe, uncomplicated, without stress. A cake is a party, a birthday, a wedding. A cake is what is served on the happiest days of your life.

We had some times, didn't we?' 'We did.' 'Never did build that Glass Castle.' 'No. But we had fun planning it.

The place where you live - your home - is one of the most important things in a body's life.

We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa Claus myth and got nothing for Christmas but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten, Dad said, you'll still have your stars.

We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa myth and got nothing for Christmas but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten, Dad said, you'll still have your stars.

We raised our glasses. I could almost hear Dad chuckling at Mom's comment in the way he always did when he was truly enjoying something. It had grown dark outside. A wind picked up, rattling the windows, and the candle flames suddenly shifted, dancing along the border between turbulence and order.

Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten," Dad said, "you'll still have your stars.

Why, an old, mangy dog, warming himself at the hearth, and struggling to his feet with a little whimper to welcome his master home—why, that dog has more memories than I! At least he recognizes his master. His master. But what can I call mine?

My memories are like coins in the devil's purse: when you open it you find only dead leaves.

certain details, somewhat curtailed, live in my memory. But I don't see anything anymore: I can search the past in vain, I can only find these scraps of images and I am not sure what they represent, whether they are memories or just fiction.

You don't put your past in your pocket; you have to have a house. I have only my body: a man entirely alone, with his lonely body, cannot indulge in memories; they pass through him. I shouldn't complain: all I wanted was to be free.

This sun and blue sky were only a snare. This is the hundredth time I've let myself be caught. My memories are like coins in the devil's purse: when you open it you find only dead leaves.

There are also amateurs. These are secretaries, office workers, shopkeepers, people who listen to others in cafes: around forty they feel swollen, with an experience they can't get rid of. Luckily they've made children on whom they can pass it off. They would like to make us believe that their past is not lost, that their memories are condensed, gently transformed into Wisdom.

I have never before had such a strong feeling that I was devoid of secret dimensions, confined within the limits of my body, from which airy thoughts float up like bubbles. I build memories with my present self. I am cast out, forsaken in the present: I vainly try to rejoin the past: I cannot escape.

My memories are like coins in the devil's purse: when you open it you find only dead leaves.