Quotes About Memories

No days, perhaps, of all our childhood are ever so fully lived as those we had regarded as not being lived at all : the days spent wholly with a favourite book

Romanistas priver?ia mus per vien? valand? išgyventi vis? galim? džiaugsm? ir sielvart? audr?, kai tikrov?je praeit? met? metai, kol patirtume kai kuriuos iš j?, o stipriausieji mums taip ir neatsiskleist? niekados, nes randasi jie iš l?to ir mes negalime to suvokti.

When we are suffering, the only words that touch us are the words of those who have known the person we loved and who can recall him to us.

Vakit kaybetmemek için yataktan kalkt?m, ama ac? beni oldu?um yere çiviledi: O gitti?inden beri ilk kez yataktan kalk?yordum.

No doubt it is because memories do not remain true for ever, and because life is made up of the endless renewal of cells, that love is not eternal.

La vida entera transcurre en la cocina

Marcella recalls in her writings and interviews that she had very little interest in food growing up, but did have vivid memories of her tiny grandmother standing on a crate, rolling pasta into silky sheets that were almost as big as a bedspread.

It's strange, you know. You can be friendly with people year after year, fish with them on the weekends, attend parties and cookouts, and then one day the reason you're drawn together is gone—and they're gone too. It's strange—and sad.

Over the last week, if there's anything I've learned, it's that you're only who you choose to be. Every moment. The past is gone. Memories are no more solid than dreams. The only real thing, the only true thing, is the present. That's it." -- "So the things we've done don't count?" "Of course they do. But we can decide how much. ?And we can decide what we want the present to be like. We can live it however we want.

hotels and trinket shops and storefront museums and all

Jack's house was crayon art and blaring cartoons and the smell of casserole. Ethan

They went back to looking straight ahead. A row of bottles lined the back of the bar, and behind them faded snapshots had been tacked up in a collage.

of smiling strangers hanging on each other, holding up beer bottles, all of them seeming to be having a great time. He wondered how old the photos were

Even the dead tell stories.

The first thought was this: that he was a foolish old man, because all his life he'd been looking for something and it was only when Anna joined him in the bar that evening that he realized that home is not something you find outside yourself; home is something you carry inside you, and it's made from the memories of the people you love, and the people who have loved you.

Home is not something you find outside yourself; home is something you carry inside you, and it's made of memories of the people you love, and the people who have loved you.

What is more agreeable than one's home?

There is no place more delightful than home.

The only time I have ever seen my father cry in my whole life was the day he watched JFK's funeral procession on television.

The beauty of the past belongs to the past.

Whose memories are these? Who speaks to her of this gentle time that she is too young to have known herself? There was hardship then, certainly, but not hearts chained and heavy with fear. Who is it that laughs with aged lightheartedness and suggests that this is still a place of promise?

I loved him so, even his past was precious to me. I found myself kissing each mark, thinking, I would have had it never happen, I would wish it away, taking him further and further back to a time when he had known no disappointments, no battles, no wounds, as I erased each one. To make him again like Caesarion. Yet if we take the past away from those we love - even to protect them - do we not steal their very selves?

Perhaps life is like an hour glass, with dear ones the sand that slips from the upper glass--the earth--into the second--eternity.

Lying in bed, half-covered by the blankets, I would drowsily ask why he had come to my door that night long ago. It had become a ritual for us, as it does for all lovers: where, when, why? remember...I understand even old people rehearse their private religion of how they first loved, most guarded of secrets. And he would answer, sleep blurring his words, "Because I had to." The question and the answer were always the same. Why? Because I had to.