Quotes About Memories

We are so sorry to hear the sad news. He(She) will be Always in our thoughts, Forever in our prayers Eternally in our memories

We never completely escape the teachers of our childhood nor any of the patterns that formed us.

Do you remember your first real teacher? Your first real teacher is your first sorrow, your first crying!

The digital camera is a great invention because it allows us to reminisce. Instantly.

I had a book in my hands to while away the time and it occurred to me that in a way a landscape is not unlike a book - a compilation of pages that overlap without two ever being the same. People open the book according to their taste and training, their memories and desires. On occasion these pages are ruled with lines that are invisible to some people, while being for others, as real, as charged and as volatile as high-voltage cables.

That happens you know, as you grow older – you can't tell the dreams from the memories.

The sad thing is that sentimentality is constantly getting the better of my pure reason. Antediluvian memories tie me to you like a pair of handcuffs. You are stuck in my soul like a rusty nail without a head. And apparently I am stuck in you too, somewhere among the cogwheels you are equipped with instead of a soul.

Time made apologies and absolution unnecessary. Time didn't really heal, it just made bad memories distant so that the brain couldn't recapture the lost pain

When the beer is gone, so are they -- flexing their cars on up the boulevard.

She traveled the world, and turned into the person she could be in other places with people she would never see again.

Mi immaginavo noi due che cuocevamo le mele per Natale, quegli stupidi quadretti romantici alla Currier e Ives... pensavo per tutto il tempo: A volte quello che abbiamo passa per amore, quando invece avrei dovuto pensare: L'amore passa.

In most cases, it is more satisfying to get a friend's answering machine and leave a cheery, tangible trace of your sincere commitment to the friendship than it is to engage in actual conversation.

I once sacrificed my life to keep my parents' promiise. This means nothing to you, because to you promises mean nothing... But later, she will forget her promise. She will forget she had a grandmother.

When you touch a man's nostalgia, he is yours.

And now at the airport, after shaking hands with everybody, waving good-bye, I think about all the different ways we leave people in this world. Cheerily waving good-bye to some at airports, knowing we'll never see each other again. Leaving others on the side of the road, hoping that we will. Finding my mother in my father's story and saying good-bye before before I have a chance to know her better.

I wanted everything for you to be better. I wanted you to have the best circumstances, the best character. I didn't want you to regret anything. And that's why I named you Waverly. It was the name of the street we lived on. And I wanted you to think, this is where I belong. But I also knew if I named you after this street, soon you would grow up, leave this place, and take a piece of me with you.

I feed myself with the old grief.

When you touch a man's nostalgia, he is yours.

I can't let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.

No rest for me anywhere. No rest from writing, awareness, insights, memories, fantasies, analogies, free associations. Writing becomes imperative for a surcharged head.

Men recognised her always: the same effulgent face, the same rust voice. And she and I, we recognised each other; I her face and she my legend.

The potion drunk by lovers is prepared by no one but themselves. The potion is the sum of one's whole existence. Every word spoken in the past accumulated forms and colors in the self. What flows through the veins besides blood is the distillation of every act committed, the sediment of all the visions, wishes, dreams, and experiences. All the past emotions converge to tint the skin and flavor the lips, to regulate the pulse and produce crystals in the eyes.

If in a dream I could break down and sob so bitterly when I meet my daughter it is only because I know, even in the dream, that I cannot really have her. When one lets so many years intervene one gets only ghosts.

I began going through dozens of boxes stored away in her apartment and her art studio. They were filled with journals, and documents, and letters. She saved everything. Handwritten notes from her aunt Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and schoolbooks my grandfather Reginald Vanderbilt doodled in as a child. I found old wills and financial records, and as I read the contents of these files stained by time and mold, I began to hear the voices of those people I never knew.