Quotes About Memories

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.

You have made a place in my heart where I thought there was no room for anything else. You have made flowers grow where I cultivated dust and stones. Remember this, on this journey you insist on making. If you die, I will not survive you long.

I don't want the books [...] to be too far away; they, also, have become friends. I even feel this way about books I don't own. In libraries, I find myself visiting the books I used before. I regard those rows of memoirs and letters as voices from the past, bound into books, and I like to make sure they are all there, alive and well. If they have collected dust, I take out the small towel I carry in my briefcase and wipe them off. -from 2012 NYT Book Review Essay

Sophia remembered visiting one of these unfortunates, an older sister of her mother's, who owned sixteen pug dogs, all of whom slept, ate, and performed their natural functions in the same room as their mistress. "A large number of parrots besides lived in the same room," Sophia wrote. "One can imagine the fragrance which reigned there.

Viewmont High School also

Stories were heirlooms in these parts.

It's the love you had that matters, isn't it, not the pain.

They had not forgotten.

A bottle of good wine, like a good act, shines ever in the retrospect

If I could go through it all again,the slender iron rungs of growing up,I would be as young as any,a child lostin unreality and loud music.

After loving you so much, can I forget you for eternity, and have no other choice?

Christmas was just another workday, just as it had been growing up in Alabama. In a good year back then, little Robert got a handkerchief and an orange. One year his father fashioned a little cart—although come to think of it that was in the spring, not at Christmastime—and the children took turns being pulled around the yard by the family goat. Then he died. His father and the goat.

Home is not only the place you start from, but the place you come back to...where dreams are sustained, hurts healed, where our stories are told.

Hands of time move us forward, never back. Only memories frozen in mind, can we reenact.

He always wrote on the flyleaf of each new book the date and where he was, so I can follow him: reading Chesterton just after they were married in November 1929, Scottish poets the following spring.

GIs were good for a Hershey's bar.

humming a few bars of vintage Springsteen.

No. I've seen enough brains to last

Those days are long gone.

We do it for the fun and the fact it makes us feel closer to loved ones both living and dead.

A park like this resembles a large, silent, isolated room. In fact it's always Sunday in a park, by the way, for it's always a bit melancholy, and the melancholy stirs up vivid memories of home, and Sunday is something that only ever existed at home, where you were a child.

But in 1982 (one year before Barack graduated), Barack Obama, Sr., died in a car accident. He

was only forty-six years old. Losing

what would you do if all the lovers of your years passed by at midnight dressed in the flesh they wore when you last loved them? what do I do? what do I say? I loved you then, I touch you now with all the glow you left in the palm of my hands.