Quotes About Memories

Places had echoes- and if one were sensitive, one might just pick up some resonance from the past, some feeling for what had happened.

She had barely talked to Jamie about his school days, and she wondered whether this was another area of experience that was for some reason out of bounds. Had he been happy? Who had his school friends been? She had no idea. There must be a reason why he had decided not to attend his ten-year class reunion; normally Jamie's instincts were social. If invited to a party, he went, and usually enjoyed himself; perhaps this did not apply to reunions.

Even a battlefield can be peaceful, can be a place for flowers to grow, for children to play; the memories, the sadness, are within us, not part of the world about us.

Children, like cats, made a house into a home, and the echoes of their presence lingered.

I'm taking on another person's memories, another person's family, another person's life. Love obscured all of that because if it did not, then nobody would marry at all, and there had to be marriage, didn't there, if people wanted to continue, have children, keep everything going…

of day it was or how we were feeling, they were

her daddy, as she called him, and of whom she thought at some point every day, every single day, and whom she had loved with all her heart.

Mma Ramotswe smiled at her old friend. You can go through life and make new friends every year -- every month practically -- but there was never any substitute for those friendships of childhood that survive into adult years. Those are the ones in which we are bound to one another with hoops of steel. She reached out and touched Dr. Maketsi on the arm, gently, as old friends will sometimes do when they have nothing more to say.

We should all have a tree in our childhood...a tree one might explore, a tree from which one might learn how to fall.

This girl, now in her early teens, had never had a photograph of herself. There was no record of her childhood, nothing which would remind her of what she used to be. There was nothing, no image, of which she could say: That is me. And all this meant that there was nobody who had ever wanted her picture; she had simply not been special enough.

The physical world—the world of stone and brick—is indifferent to our suffering, to our dramas, she thought. Even a battlefield can be peaceful, can be a place for flowers to grow, for children to play; the memories, the sadness, are within us, not part of the world about us.

Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which come back, unexpectedly, to remind us who we are.

She had forgiven him, yes, but she still did not like to remember. And perhaps a deliberate act of forgetting went along with forgiveness. You forgave and then you said to yourself: Now I shall forget. Because if you did not forget, then your forgiveness would be tested, perhaps many times and in ways that you could not resist, and you might go back to anger and to hating.

photographs on a wall were there for people to see and to examine if interested; an album is a different thing…

Days when I came to flower serenely in Lycée gardens long ago, and read my Apuleius keenly, but spared no glance for Cicero.

He who has lived and thought can't help despising people in his soul; him who has felt disturbs the ghost of irrecoverable days; for him there are no more enchantments; him does the snake of memories, him does repentance bite.

Recalling former years' romances, Recalling love that time enhances, With tenderness, with not a care, Alive, at liberty once more, We drank, in mute intoxication, The breath of the indulgent night! Just as a sleepy convict might Be carried from incarceration Into a greenwood, so were we Borne to our youth by reverie.

Já esquecera os amigos, a cidade E o tédio das festas de vaidade.

September: it was the most beautiful of words, he'd always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.

Toasted tobacco, no additives,' I said. 'Yum. Tastes like childhood.

among his very few belongings I found a small, green leather-bound booklet given "to Timothy Donald Fuller with the Compliments of the Ministry of Internal Affairs as a memento on becoming a citizen of Rhodesia at Umtali on 17th October, 1974." Inside the pamphlet were a few of the sorts of things meant to inspire Rhodesian citizens onward and upward to greater things. A statue of Cecil John Rhodes, looking gouty; that was page 1.

It is only the dead who do not return.

I have lost my friends, D'Artagnan said ruefully, burying his head in his hands. I have nothing left but the bitterest of recollections... Two large tears rolled down his cheeks. You are young, Athos answered. Your bitter recollections have the time requisite to change into the happiest of memories.

Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.