Quotes About Memories

Our friendship had turned into a souvenir book filled with history and cool childhood-friend stories that we trotted out at parties. It was the envy of all our new acquaintances. It was like an old set of company china—carefully set out to be viewed and shown off, but no one actually eats off it. The friendship hadn't been functional for some time.

In the quiet of the kitchen my mind wanders. Fried chicken and potato salad. What's this man trying to re-create? A picnic? An outing? A meal his grandma made? A chess pie is old school. It's basically a pecan pie without the pecans. Syrupy sweet. I think about the memories he must have about this meal. Innocent. Pure. Happy.

The days of recording family births, deaths and marriages in the family Bible were far distant.

We don't need to have just one favorite. We keep adding favorites. Our favorite book is always the book that speaks most directly to us at a particular stage in our lives. And our lives change. We have other favorites that give us what we most need at that particular time. But we never lose the old favorites. They're always with us. We just sort of accumulate them.

I do not know what you are supposed to do with memories likes these. It feels wrong to want to forget. Perhaps this is why we write these things down, so we can move on.

"I love Nunsmere," said the Literary Man from London. "It is a spot where faded lives are laid away in lavender."

She may be an old flame, but she still smokin'.

The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.

The man that I named the Giver passed along to the boy knowledge, history, memories, color, pain, laughter, love, and truth. Every time you place a book in the hands of a child, you do the same thing. It is very risky. But each time a child opens a book, he pushes open the gate that separates him from Elsewhere. It gives him choices. It gives him freedom. Those are magnificent, wonderfully unsafe things. [from her Newberry Award acceptance speech]

Don't be afraid. The dead cannot hurt you. They give you no pain, except that of seeing your own death in their faces. And one can face that, I find.

Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!

The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.

I loved - but those I loved are gone; Had friends - my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart - the heart - is lonely still.

Bricks without straw are more easily made than imagination without memories.

They say that Hope is happiness But genuine Love must prize the past; And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose first -- they set the last. And all that mem'ry loves the most Was once our only hope to be: And all that hope adored and lost Hath melted into memory. Alas! It is delusion all-- The future cheats us from afar: Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are.

My happiest childhood memories are of times in our backyard. My mother had an old clothesline that hung out in front. It seemed like it stretched a mile long, and I loved sitting in the sun while she hung clothes.

Jeffs Bagel Run bagels taste like the definition of what a bagel meant to me growing up."

The sleepless nights,The daily fights,The quick toboggan when you reach the heights—I miss the kisses and I miss the bites.I wish I were in love again!

It was our special night and we held it for as long as we could. It was something that belonged to us. A night that would be added to our long list of memories. It was our happy ending. And it was the last time we would ever be together again.

It was a gift," Angelo said. "From a friend." "A friend does not give a gun as a gift." Angelo walked into the room and sat down next to his father. "This one does," he said. "And what will you do with such a gift?" "It will remind me," Angelo said in a near whisper. "Of what?" Paolino's eyes searched the boy's face. "Of what I am without it, Papa.

El buen Dios no debería dejar que se pueda joder a otro sin verle llorar, sin oír sus gritos, sin sentir su dolor y cargarlo en la memoria

PTSD sucked. It was a dragon that lived inside her own head, shaking loose more and more nightmarish memories, each one prompting another like dominoes tumbling.

No matter how much we pretend otherwise—mothers, daughters, grandmothers—there is always a part of us deep down inside that remains the little girl we once were.