Quotes About Memories

You're only young once, they say, but doesn't it go on for a long time? More years than you can bear." From the book An Experiment in Love.

The lesson for this Round, as we shall hear time and again, is that each generation inhabits a different acoustic universe, constituted by different musics and memories of sound, by different thicknesses of walls and densities of traffic, by different means of manufacture and broadcast, by different diets and ear-damaging diseases, by different proportions and preponderances of metal rattling in kitchens, clanging on the streets, or ringing in the ( differently polluted) air above.

Nor did the word closure that a few of the mourners said they hoped to achieve. Edward believed that they thought of it as a door closing softly on their grief, but he was afraid it might shut out more than they'd bargained for, memories of love and pleasure as well as of loss.

Never look at your life as something insignificant. Never forget those friends of yours that you loved.

Bury the pain of losing your loved ones... into the arms of your friends.

I was the fifth of seven children, five boys and two girls.

There are times when my father's absence is as heavy as a child sitting on my chest.

From time to time, I'll look back through the personal journals I've scribbled in throughout my life, the keepers of my raw thoughts and emotions. The words poured forth after my dad died, when I went through a divorce, and after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. There are so many what-ifs scribbled on those pages.

There's always something left to lose.

I remember what it was to hate him with the whole of my heart, but I've remembered too late.

Jewels, lies, slips of paper, dried flowers, memories of thing long past, useless quotations, idle hands, beads, buttons, and mischief.

Someone could cut through the mess in our house and look at it like one might look at rings on a tree or layers of sediment. They'd find the black-and-white hairs of a dog we had when I was six, the acid-washed jeans my mother once wore, the seven blood-soaked pillowcases from the time I skinned my knee. All our family secrets rest in endless piles.

Would you?" Mom smiles and touches my hair, pushing it back from my forehead. I let her, but I grit my teeth. Her bare fingers brush my skin. I am thankful when none of my amulets crack. "Do you know what the Turkish say about coffee? It should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love. Isn't that beautiful? My grandfather told me that when I was a little girl, and I never forgot it. Unfortunately, I still like my milk.

I need to make her realize that even terrible memories are better than weird gaps or the hollowness of your feelings not making sense.

There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she'll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.

Once, she made a boy come out of his house and kiss her under the streetlight. It was her first kiss. She thinks it was probably his, too. She never told him and she never, ever will.

She'd known he'd understand. Brothers and sisters had their own language, their own shorthand. She was glad to be able to share the weird, ridiculous impossibleness of it with the only person who knew all the same stories, with the person who'd made those stories in the first place. (pg. 117)

What I want is him back, him standing beside me, him laughing at all this. I would settle for even his worst self, his cruellest trickster self, if only he could be here.

By the time dad died, the junk was so piled up that there were tunnels instead of rooms.

loss sings to loss

If there is nothing but this;" Roiben said. "If we are to be shadows, changeless and forgotten, we will have to dine on these memories for the rest of our days. Don't you want a few more moments to chew over?

In that moment, I hated him for being so precious to them, for being cosseted and treated as though he was deserving of protection when I had none. Maybe I still hate him a little. But he was kind when we were children. It's possible there's a part of him that's still kind.

There is always something left to lose.

Only to see Oak, the heir to Elfhame, standing in a clearing. All my memories of him were of a merry young boy. But he'd become tall and rawboned, in the manner of children who have grown suddenly and too fast. When he moved, it was with coltish uncertainty, as though not used to his body. He would be thirteen. And he had no reason to be in my woods.