Quotes About Memories

But that's all bad first dates are: short stories. Good first dates are more than short stories. They are first chapters. On a good first date, everything is springtime.

I used to go to Bob's Big Boy restaurant just about every day from the mid-seventies until the early eighties. I'd have a milk shake and sit and think. There's a safety in thinking in a diner. You can have your coffee or your milk shake, and you can go off into strange dark areas, and always come back to the safety of the diner.

My childhood was elegant homes, tree-lined streets, the milkman, building backyard forts, droning airplanes, blue skies, picket fences, green grass, cherry trees. Middle America as it's supposed to be. But on the cherry tree, there's this pitch oozing out – some black, some yellow – and millions of red ants crawling all over it. I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath.

The stone rests on his hand with undeniable ease, a slightly embarrassing friend: an acquaintance from younger, more impetuous days...

What remains of your past if you didn't allow yourself to feel it when it happened? If you don't have your experiences in the moment, if you gloss over them with jokes or zoom past them, you end up with curiously dispassionate memories. Procedural and depopulated. It's as if a neutron bomb went off and all you're left with are hospital corridors, where you're scanning the walls for familiar photographs.

I hoped our lives would continue this way forever, but inevitably the past came knocking. Not the good kind that was collectible but the bad kind that had arthritis.

Sometimes, when I find it hard to sleep, I'll think of when we first met, of the newness of each other's body, and my impatience to know everything about this person. Looking back, I should have taken it more slowly, measured him out over the course of fifty years rather than cramming him in so quickly.

When I was seven years old, my family moved to North Carolina. When he was seven years old, Hugh's family moved to the Congo. We had a collie and a house cat. They had a monkey and two horses named Charlie Brown and Satan. I threw stones at stop signs. Hugh threw stones at crocodiles. The verbs are the same, but he definitely wins the prize when it comes to nouns and objects.

While I know I can't control it, what I ultimately hope to recall about my late-in-life father is not his nagging or his toes but, rather, his fingers, and the way he snaps them when listening to jazz. He's done it forever, signifying, much as a cat does by purring, that you may approach. That all is right with the world. "Man, oh man," he'll say in my memory, lifting his glass and taking us all in, "isn't this just fantastic

They did not live in a child's house, we lived in theirs.

Hey," he said, "that's where we used to go when we were a family.

May 9, 1989 Again this year I made Mom a Mother's Day card. It reads: M is for the Morbid things you showed me, O is for the Other things you did T is for the Thousand bucks you owe me H is for things you found I Hid E is for the Error of my caring R is for the Ranch house you call home Mother dear, I wish that you had shown me How to shave and how to use a comb.

Judy Nylon, who as a child had sought succour from her parents' escapist 'exotica' albums and regularly drifted off to sleep to the lulling vibraphones of Martin Denny's Quiet Village, recalls a slightly different version of events: 'So it was pouring rain in Leicester Square

Si nos deja es para preparar, también un día, nuestra llegada al reino del Señor, para que seamos acogidos con esmero. No imaginé a mi padre con el empeño de prepararme una acogedora llegada al Cielo, ¿me dejaría allí ducharme sin gritarme que cerrara el grifo de una maldita vez? Me costaba imaginar el reencuentro del que hablaba el sacerdote. Como mucho mi padre me aguardaría con su oportuno te lo dije.

Hemos convertido el presente en algo de lo que huir a toda prisa, aunque sea hacia el pasado.

Douglass's later, prolific appeals to the natural-rights tradition, and even to the right of revolution, should be first considered in light of these compelling, damaging childhood memories of such cruelty.

But with one exception, all things pass from this world and time erases not just memories but entire civilizations, reducing everyone and every monument to dust. The only thing that survives is love, for it is an energy as enduring as light, which travels outward from its source toward the ever-expanding boundaries of the universe, the very energy of which all things were conceived and with which all things will be sustained in a world beyond this world of time and dust and forgetting.

Life is a train ride, and at the many stations along the route, people important to us debark, never to get aboard again, until by the end of the journey, we sit in a passenger car where most of the seats are empty.

Memories aren't rags that come clean with enough ringing.

To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing—I'm sorry, I would rather not go on.

To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing—I'm sorry, I would rather not go on.

I am happy to see him on the couch, his huge feet on the arm, dirtying the cloth. I am happy to hear him stomping upstairs across the floorboards and whipping towels at his sisters after he has showered. I am happy to hear him screaming for no reason, bounding down the stairs, reaching the bottom and wildly petting Nelly, shaking her head back and forth, and calling her a good girl. I think how it doesn't matter who shot my son. My son is back.

Celui qui passe à coté de la plus belle histoire de sa vie n'aura que l'âge de ses regrets et tous les soupirs du monde ne sauraient bercer son âme.

Solitude is long. The joys that connect us leave almost no trace.