Quotes About Memories

I myself walked at the funeral of tenderness.

When a parent dies, for those left behind it can feel as though half the sky has fallen. My father was the sheltering sky, and beneath his mild firmament no storm ever raged, no hard rain fell.

It's not easy losing someone," she said. "It never goes away, does it?" "The Phantom Pain, they call it," I said. "Like amputees get when they can still feel their missing limbs.

Images of pain and distress, more memories of things I'd seen during the war and would rather have forgotten, rose to the surface of my mind. As long as I kept on walking they'd remain mixed and chaotic, like imperfectly recollected books and films; once I stopped they'd become unbearably organised.

O sad, sad hills! O cold, cold hearth! In sorrow he learned this truth — One may return to the place of his birth, He cannot go back to his youth.

Popularity ends on yearbook day-Respect stays forever.

To old times, May they never come again...' 'Old time past and better times to come!

My dad is the reason I actually started watching wrestling. My dad was never big into sports we were all big into sports as kids, and he'd go to our Little League games or whatever and not really know what was going on, because he didn't know about sports, but he knew about wrestling.

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my life to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye.

The one thing I remember about Christmas was that my father used to take me out in a boat about ten miles offshore on Christmas Day, and I used to have to swim back. Extraordinary. It was a ritual. Mind you, that wasn't the hard part. The difficult bit was getting out of the sack.

These were the tales that echoed in the head long after the books that contained them were cast aside.

He had, in truth, been losing her for a very long time.

And his voice was filled with regret, and fondness and hope.

In the space of one night, [I] had gone through the possessions of my dead wife and child, sorting, discarding, smelling the last traces of them that clung to their clothing like the ghosts of themselves.

On the day of the funeral he had stood behind me in the rain and let the water wash over him, the drops falling from the brim of his hat like tears

carried the smell of the streets with him.

My pal is dead.

It struck Rosie that nowadays everyone lived the way gay men like Kraft had always lived; in brief collisions, restless, among lovers whom there was no way to fix except for as long as you could hold their hands. And then what? And then remember them, and keep in touch: friends.

John Crowley

It's like those high-school yearbook photos that everyone would rather not see: Oh my God, look at that mullet hair. I have those photos too, but for me, they're, like, entire movies. And they show them on cable.

My dad had a commercial film company, so he had a videotape player before anyone. So he got Mel Brooks movies or Citizen Kane or some classic old movies. And every summer the revival house in Evanston would show the great films from the '50s and '60s and '70s.

Celebrations are the juice of life.

It's not the last day that matters the most. It's the ones in between. The ones you get the chance to look back on. They're the carnation days. They may not stand out the most at first, but they stay with you the longest.

We've all met one or two women, I daresay, it would have been better if we hadn't met." "Now there," observed Cullingford Abbot, "we have a short history of mankind expressed with admirable terseness.