Quotes About Memories

Years had passed, and years had a bad name: a verse of Horace floated into his mind: Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes; eripuere jocos, Venerem, convivia, ludum… and for a moment he tried to make a tolerable English version; but his The years in passing rob us of our delight, of merriment and carnal love, of each in turn, all sport and dining out… did not please him and he abandoned the attempt.

He remembered his own wedding-day and the desperate feeling of being caught on a leeshore in a gale of wind, unable to claw off, tide setting hard against him, anchors coming home.

The sensation of falling into the past is not unlike that of coming home for the holidays.

But there is nothing so tedious as sitting by when two old shipmates are calling out, "Do you remember the three days' blow in the Mona Passage? – Do you remember Wilkins and his timenoguy? – What has happened to old Blodge?

The only thing that makes life worth living is the possibility of experiencing now and then a perfect moment. And perhaps even more than that, it's having the ability to recall such moments in their totality, to contemplate them like jewels. Do you understand?

Las cosas ocurren solo un determinado número de veces, en realidad, muy pocas. ¿Cuántas veces más recordarás cierta tarde de tu infancia, una tarde que forma una parte tan entrañable de tu ser que ni siquiera puedes imaginar la vida sin ella? Quizá cuatro o cinco veces más. Quizás ni eso. ¿Cuántas veces más verás salir la luna llena? Quizás veinte. Y sin embargo todo parece ilimitado.

Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them are covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, that children understand; their stories and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the water of their lives.

Judith hated nostalgia. It was just the waiting room for death.

it is the peculiar power of flowers that while they are universal and spread their species over the world, they invoke in each beholder the dearest and most cherished memories.

This is a book. It is a book I found in a box. I found the box in the attic. The box was in the attic, under the eaves. The attic was hot and still. The air was stale with dust. The dust was from old pictures and books. The dust in the air was made up of the book I found. I breathed the book before I saw it; tasted the book before I read it.

Boy to his dying grampa: I am a century wide. I think that I have my literal age but am surrounded in a radius of years. I think that these years of days, this near century of years, is a gift from you.

T-shirt with the saying "I May Be Old, but I Got to See All the Cool Bands.

Whenever I'm leaving I get sentimental for that nostalgia I know I won't have the next day.

Then it comes to him—how you can't return to a place you've never been to, can't recapture what you never had. The chances you miss stay missed forever.

I walk home, thinking of another place, of seemingly long endless summers and the shade of different kinds of trees; and then of winters when the branches of the trees were bare, so bare that, recalling them now, it seems inconceivable to me that I looked at them and did not think of the summer just gone, and the spring soon to come, as illusions; as dreams, never fulfilled, never to be fulfilled.' Philoctetes.

She had had a good life. It had its comic elements. Its scattered relics had not been and now can never all be retrieved; but some of them were blessed by the good intentions that created them.

Time it was And what a time it was, it was A time of innocence A time of confidences Long ago it must be I have a photograph Preserve your memories They're all that's left you

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school, it's a wonder I can think at all

Even the smoke of our motherland is sweet and pleasant to us.")

There is nothing shocking about leaving home, but rather, a slow feeling of gathering sadness as each familiar place flashes by the window and disappears and becomes part of the past.

every trip is unique.

Tonight I write this journal entry on my laptop. Other nights I have handwritten entries in notebooks. Sometimes I jot down notes as I ride home in the cab or wait for an appointment. I want all of this -- everything and everyone -- to stay with me.

Paper Matches My aunts washed dishes while the uncles squirted each other on the lawn with garden hoses. Why are we in here, I said, and they are out there? That's the way it is, said Aunt Hetty, the shriveled-up one. I have the rages that small animals have, being small, being animal. Written on me was a message, "At Your Service," like a book of paper matches. One by one we were taken out and struck. We come bearing supper, our heads on fire.

They were all too young to die and always would be.