Quotes About Memories

So he repeated the same made-up crap he had lived on then, about bubblegum machines and Cadillacs with fins, and endless sunshine, and drive-in movies and waitresses on roller skates, and cheeseburgers and cold Coca-Cola in green glass bottles, and baseball on AM radio, out of Kansas City, static and all.

A person lives sixty years, does all kinds of things, knows all kinds of things, feels all kinds of things, and then it's over. Like it never happened at all.

A person lives sixty years, does all kinds of things, knows all kind of things, feels all kind of things, and then it's over. Like it never happened at all.

He's gone, Sara said. I can feel it. This time for good. Natalie hugged her, and she started to sob. Then Harry shattered the silence with a pained yell, hurling his thermos into the woods. With tears in his eyes, he said, I want a drink. I hugged him fiercely. It'll have to be one of my special chais, Harry. Have I made you a dirty one yet? I want mine filthy, he said. We trudged back to the museum together, and toasted Coby with dirty vanilla chai lattes.

But I would do it all again, every bit of it, I would lose him again just to have him again for an hour, for a minute, for even a second. I would do it all again just to see his face.

Simply to line up words one after another upon a page is to create some order where it did not exist, to give a recognizable shape to the chaos of our lives. Writing cannot bring our loved ones back, but it can sometimes fix them in our fleeting memories as they were in life, and it can always help us make it through the night.

I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, golden and so clean it quivers.

I don't have the gift to aptly describe the rest of that evening, except to say it was a Christmas Eve beyond all gasping wishes

Let's hear it again! The sweetest sound your conversation partner can hear from your lips when you're talking with a group of people is Tell them about the time you . . .

Do you usually go hiking? This weekend, take a tennis lesson. Do you bowl? Leave that to your buddies this time. Why? Because it will give you conversational fodder for the rest of your life.

They lingered over cups of ersatz coffee.

Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.

they left for California, Einstein had told his wife to take a good look at their house. "You will never see it again," he told her.

InconÈ™tientul are dou? feÈ›e, deoarece ne protejeaz? de tr?irea conÈ™tient? a amintirilor dureroase È™i a experienÈ›elor asociate acestora È™i, în acelaÈ™i timp, ne împiedic? s? accept?m È™i s? înv???m din acele experienÈ›e.

Because the thing is, as Milo and my friends taught me, ghosts do exist. They don't have to be the creepy monsters that cause nightmares or do harm. They can take the form of memories, of feelings, or of a hard-to-define presence. Or of something else that's impossible to explain, but that's totally okay—just because something can't be explained doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

The books of our childhood offer a vivid door to our own pasts, and not necessarily for the stories we read there, but for the memories of where we were and who we were when we were reading them; to remember a book is to remember the child who read that book.

I'd give all the wealth that years have piled, the slow result of life's decay, To be once more a little child for one bright summer day.

I can't go back to yesterday--because I was a different person then.

Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.

And though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For happy summer days gone by, And vanish'd summer glory-- It shall not touch with breath of bale, The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood:

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive the strange creatures of her little sister's dream.

I kept his letters in a sandalwood box and covered them every day with the flowers I gathered in the garden.

She knew what it was to wait for someone who would never come home. She knew that grief, like a scar, faded but never really went away.