Quotes About Memories

I was a big Who fan when I was 15, 16 years old, and I used to go watch them play at the Marquee Club in London as often as I could.

Nobody - and I don't care if I marry somebody tomorrow - nobody could take Keith Whitley's place. Nobody.

It doesn't matter what happens; no matter where a child goes—how far or how long. Even if it's forever. You never lose them.

It seemed such a short time ago that Erin had come running toward him, laughing, her black hair like silk around an elfin face. And he'd melted inside just at the sight of her, gone breathless like a boy with his first real date. It still felt like that, despite her scars, her limp. In his heart, he carried a portrait of her that would withstand all the long, aging years, that would leave her young and unscarred for as long as he lived.

Love, for some people is undying, even if one lost the partner.

Her green eyes went up to the sky. Well, it wasn't such a very bad place to die, she mused as drowsiness swept over her. She was near Winthrop, even though he didn't care anymore. Maybe he'd bury her here, and she'd be near him forever…

I'd suffered many losses in recent years after my father mother uncle aunt and cousin had all passed away. In her final years my mother often lamented that there was no one alive who had known her as a girl and I was starting to understand how spooked she'd felt. I wasn't sure I could take any more abandonments. One succumbs so easily to mind spasms, worry spasms. [p. 95]

Like tiny islands on the horizon, they can vanish in rough seas. Even in calm weather, their coral gradually erodes, pickled by salt and heat. Yet they form the shoals of a life. Some offer safe lagoons and murmuring trees. Others crawl with pirates and reptiles. Together they connect a self with the mainland and society. Plot their trail and a mercurial past becomes visible. Memories feel geological in their repose, solid and true, the bedrock of consciousness.

Without memories we wouldn't know who we are, how we once were, who we'd like to be in the memorable future. We are the sum of our memories.

Heschel wrote of his childhood in Warsaw, there was one thing we did not have to look for and that was exaltation. Every moment is great, we were taught, every moment is unique.

Consider the inner garden, that secret glade filled with day dreams, feelings, and memories. Sometimes they can be made physical, a goal of metaphysical gardening. Otherwise they remain mere reflections in a gazing ball.

Joanna has an unmanageable lump in her throat and wonders why it's always the happy memories that make her cry.

opening the book, i inhaled. the smell of old books, so sharp, so dry you can taste it.

And now, dear reader, the story is over. It is time for you to cross the bridge once more and return to the world you came from. This river, which is and is not the Thames, must continue flowing without you. You have haunted here long enough, and besides, you surely have rivers of your own to attend to?

Everybody has a story. It's like families. You might not know who they are, might have lost them, but they exist all the same. You might drift apart or you might turn your back on them, but you can't say you haven't got them.

He would go to the bakery for a cake, and somewhere in the shop-I had never discovered where; it was one of the few secrets I had not fathomed-he kept a candle, which came out on this day every year, was lit, and which I blew out, with as good an impression of happiness as I could muster. Then we ate the cake, with tea, and settled down to quiet digestion and cataloging.

The end of my nine o'clocks was another anchor in time gone.

Pigs were funny creatures. You could almost think they were human the way they looked at you sometimes. Or was the pig remembering something? Yes, she realized, that was it. The pig looked exactly as if she were recollecting some happiness now lost, so that joy remembered was overlaid with present sorrow.

All my unsaid words went back to wherever they had been all these years.

Avete presente quando cominciate a leggere un nuovo libro prima che la membrana di quello precedente abbia avuto il tempo di richiudersi dietro di voi? Quando lasciate il vecchio libro avete idee, argomenti - perfino personaggi - impigliati nelle fibre dei vestiti e, aprendo quello nuovo, scoprite che sono ancora con voi.

Alongside my mispronunciation of hello , good-bye and sorry in seventeen languages, and my ability to recite the Greek alphabet forward and backward (I who have never learned a word of Greek in my life), the phonetic alphabet was one of those secret, random wells of useless knowledge left over from my bookish childhood. I learned it only to amuse myself; its purpose in those days was merely private, so as the years passed I made no particular effort to practice it.

Everybody has a story. It's like families. You might not know who they are, might have lost them, but they exist all the same. You might drift apart or you might turn your back on them, but you can't say you haven't got them. Same goes for stories.

Emmeline and Adeline. Unmistakable. Two manes of red hair, two pairs of black shoes; one child in the navy poplin that the Missus had put Emmeline in that morning, the other in green.

All the grief I had kept at bay for years by means of books and bookcases approached me now.