Quotes About Memories

If you think I'm annoying and preachy now, you should have known me in grade school.

Alan had never been stabbed or shot or punctured or broken. Were scars the best evidence of living? If we have not survived something, and thus were certain that we'd lived, we could scar ourselves, couldn't we?

This is why Max loved Mr. Beckmann: he was an equal. He seemed to have navigated his way through seven or so decades of adulthood without forgetting one moment of his childhood- what he loved and hated, feared and coveted.

She bookmarked my texts, my notes, my scribblings. She walked through my thoughts, waded through my dreams.

I hate being so nostalgic about the Sixties.

I will never forget that the passing down of memories is the strongest link in the gossamer bridge that binds up as people. I plan to devote my live to doing just that. And if you've taught me anything, it's that what we hold in our hearts is truly the fierest component of our humanity.

Dark, cool, musty, smoky, where light fell funny and everyone looked like someone you knew or wanted to know. Or, more likely, wanted to forget.

At the end of a lifetime's worth of lights and nights, it seemed that family was really the only important thing there was. And yet how many of us truly appreciated that significance before our last breath left us? We lost family all the time, and we mourned them and buried them and remembered them. Wouldn't it be better to celebrate family while they are alive to a greater degree than when they are no longer with us?

The Pullers sat there for a long time together, big, strong, and courageous men transformed back into two little boys by an old man's loving words that had come a lot later than they should have.

That's about what most of us will get, thought Decker. And then we just live on in memories and fading pictures set on tables and hung on walls.

that were very familiar. He saw his father.

dream. Her old man was proud of her, Gibson knew, though he rarely showed it. Public displays of affection were not in the DNA of the Rogers family. Gibson could count on one hand the number of times her mother had hugged or kissed her. And she could count

Trains had a nostalgic magnetism that was undeniable, even for the many Americans who'd never even been on one.

We've apparently come a long way since the 1966 Mustang," added Michelle. "I drove my brother's hand-me-down in college. It had something called an eight-track player.

It goes by so fast. But when your kids are little and the days seem like they are forty-eight hours long, you just can't see that. And everyone with grown kids tells you they grow up in the blink of an eye and will be out of college and on with their lives before you know it. And young parents listen but never really believe it.' She paused. 'Until it happens to them.

On the other hand, what I like my music to do to me is awaken the ghosts inside of me. Not the demons, you understand, but the ghosts.

Some of the burdens we carry include false weight, perhaps to make up for all the horrible stuff we actually did and forgot.

Memories are like that. They live between synapses and between the people who hold them. Memories, even epic ones, are perishable from their very formation even in people who don't soak their brains in mood-altering chemicals. There is only so much space on any one person's hard drive, and old memories are prone to replacement by newer ones.

The first thing the boy Garion remembered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and, above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that all his memories began in that kitchen.

He knew America, and even though he hadn't been there in fifteen years, he knew what its soldiers liked because of what one of them had written on the door of a metal locker that was in the room he'd been given to live in. Sex, potato soup, and Johnny Cash, it said.

Help, the working Account Representative called, feeling the stir of a tinily remembered humid wind and pausing, again, to look behind him, past the Brougham's black hood and the carelessly dropped safety helmet beside the white cycle, at the Ramp that spiraled up and out of sight toward a street, empty and bright, before the Building, empty and bright, dispossessed, autonomous and autonomic. Bent to what two lives required, below everything, he called for help again and again.

Long brooding over those lost pleasures exaggerates their charm and sweetness.

Are not there little chapters in everybody's life, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history?

At certain periods of life, we live years of emotion in a few weeks, and look back on those times as on great gaps between the old life and the new.