Quotes About Memories

I cried myself, thinking of the grass growing on her tennis court, and the cruelty that was natural.

A person's life isn't orderly (...); it runs about all over the place, in and out through time. The present's hardly there; the future doesn't exist. Only love matters in the bits and pieces of a person's life.

but I ain't seen 'em in twenty years.

No. My family lived back in Ohio. Still does, I reckon. I ain't seen 'em since I was twelve.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be...

I have always had a love for American geography, and especially for the landscapes of the South. One of my pleasures has been to drive across it, with no one in the world knowing where I am, languidly absorbing the thoughts and memories of old moments, of people vanished now from my life.

I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes, I voiced these words: You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.

Although the old hound had no way of knowing it, he had stirred memories, and what priceless treasures they were. Memories of my boyhood days, an old K. C. Baking Powder can, and two little red hounds. Memories of a wonderful love, unselfish devotion, and death in its saddest form.

It's hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might life.

I know it is still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red leaves, but it wouldn't be hidden from me for part of my life is buried there, too.

It's strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man's mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you've seen, or something you've heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

I know it is still there, hiding its secret beneath those long, red leaves, but it woukdn't be hidden from me for part of my life is buried there, too.

I'll always remember this as the summer of the monkeys.

Where the Red Fern Grows taps into the wellspring that runs deep in all of us as we fall in step with a boy and his dogs and, piece by piece, our own stories unfold.

Fill your tall goblets with white wine and red, And sing brave songs of gallant love and true, Wearing soft robes of emerald and blue, And dance, as I your dances oft have led, And laugh, as I have often laughed with you - And be most merry - after I am dead.

As I come through the garden, Suddenly all birds seem to cease their singing: The tight-curled buds like birds on the branches swinging Silently shrink and harden On the naked trees that were once green fountains springing. And you are not there, not there, not there, Your laughing face and your windblown hair Leave not even a ghost in the garden.

When I hear a man say that his childhood was the happiest time of his life, I think (puff) my friend, you have had a pretty poor life.

The trouble with music was that in some way it was too nostalgic...every tune seemed to exist with its notes firmly rooted in an event or an emotion or a period of time.

Erano stati insieme, la bambina e l'orologio, la ragazza e l'orologio, la donna e l'orologio, attraverso malattie, incubi, fiabe e sogni a occhi aperti, attraverso la monotonia e la meraviglia della vita.

Invece adesso quella stanza, che l'aveva vista diventare adulta, l'avrebbe anche vista avvizzire e sbiadire.

That reminds me of when you used to call and see us before Christmas, the year before last. Somehow–somehow life was all dark and secret and beautiful then.

So much had happened in their relationship since the angry scene of last August that they met like strangers, remembering the old emotions but no longer feeling them.

The uncertainty and importance of the present reduce the past and future to comparative insignificance, and clear the mind of minor worries. And when all is over, memories remain which few men do not hold precious.

I do not propose to recount the Homeric struggles of the 'friendlies.' Little in them is worthy of remembrance; much seeks oblivion.