Quotes About Memories

Le persone che amiamo possono esserci portate via in un battito di ciglia. All'improvviso. Senza nessun avvertimento.

Travel empties out everything you've into the box called your life, all the things you accumulate to tell you who you are

She wanted to stop time and hold on to all of the memories, because the greatest injustice was that those memories would fade into sepia tones. Her brain wouldn't remember what her heart had seen. Not perfectly. Not in full color. He was gone, and soon time would rob her of what little she had left.

the things which, when added up, amounted to a life.

Plants whose names my mother somehow found the time to teach me.

Eat it, smoke it, stay up all night for it because the memories of the damage you wreak upon your body when you are young will sustain your spirit when you are old.

While a thousand memories and moments, words, the first darling, the second time Carol had met her at the store, a thousand memories of Carol's face, her voice, moments of anger and laughter flashed like the tail of a comet across her brain. And now it was pale-blue distance and space, an expanding space in which she took flight suddenly like a long arrow.

Without you my tomorrow wouldn't be worth the wait, and my yesterdays wouldn't be worth remembering.

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.

Once in a while, groundless melancholy would darken my face, a dull and incomprehensible nostalgia for times never experienced would invade me.

Actually even the worst childhood is always enchanted, how awful.

Mi dedico alla nostalgia della mia antica povertà, quando tutto era più sobrio e più degno, e io non avevo ancora mangiato aragoste.

I'll miss myself so bad when I die.

there are indestructible things that accompany the body to death as if they had been born with it. And one of them is what is created between a man and a woman who have experienced certain moments together.

Don't you remember you once told me: 'today's pain will be your joy tomorrow; there is nothing that escapes transfiguration.' Don't you remember? Maybe it wasn't exactly like that...

Journeys, those magic caskets full of dreamlike promises, will never again yield up their treasures untarnished. A proliferating and overexcited civilization has broken the silence of the seas once and for all. The perfumes of the tropics and the pristine freshness of human beings have been corrupted by a busyness with dubious implications, which mortifies our desires and dooms us to acquire only contaminated memories.

December, 1919 Last night I heard your voice, mother, The words you sang to me When I, a little barefoot boy, Knelt down against your knee. And tears gushed from my heart, mother, And passed beyond its wall, But though the fountain reached my throat The drops refused to fall. 'Tis ten years since you died, mother, Just ten dark years of pain, And oh, I only wish that I Could weep just once again.

If I had a single flower for every time I think of you, I could walk forever in my garden.

Even when relationships become fractured, or someone dies, the connections you have to your family are never lost.

La muerte pide resignación, la ausencia no.

Quisiera, cuando terminen mis días en la Tierra, sorprenderme con que sí hay algo más. Un lugar creado por el dios que sea, de la religión que sea. O por nosotros. Un lugar donde encontrarnos otra vez y para siempre. Puede ser el aire, o el agua, un atardecer o el corazón de los que quedan vivos. Que a ese "dios", o como quieran llamarlo, cada uno le construya su propia catedral.

The days of our childhood were steep steps into a collapsing mind. It looked like we rescued ourselves, were rescued. Then there are these days, each day of our adult lives. They will never forget our way through, these brothers, each brother, my brother, dear brother, my dearest brother, dear heart --

When I was a kid, the punishment I disliked the most was writing sentences. My mother loved to make me record my transgressions--always a minimum of five hundred times--and she even bought special spiral notebooks for me to fill up.... No matter how many notebooks I went through, there was always another one waiting in the kitchen drawer.

There were three terrible ages of childhood -- zero to 10, 10 to 20, and 20 to 30.