Quotes About Memories

When I was a little boy in school I had to dress up as a bunny and there's a picture of me with an annoyed face, and when I saw it, I thought I should name myself 'Bad Bunny.'

Never far from my thoughts are memories of being a little girl in Queens, N.Y., our family of five crowded in a small one-bedroom apartment, struggling to learn English and survive a new life in a new country, America. We humbly and gratefully still recall the kindnesses shown by strangers and neighbors who became new friends.

Memories are thoughts that arise. They're not realities. Only when you believe that they are real, then they have the power over you. But when you realize it's just another thought arising about the past, then you can have a spacious relationship with that thought. The thought no longer has you in its grip.

I think about my mother every day. But usually the thoughts are fleeting - she crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely... gone.

I try to always go for something... very interior, following thoughts and memories, something that I think is difficult to do on the screen, which is essentially a third-person medium.

Like Jesus, every human being has enough memories in his past to occupy his time and thoughts continually. It is not the remembrance of these incidents but the reliving of them that creates havoc in our souls.

When we come to images or memories or thoughts, speculation, while always closely related to practice, is more explicit, and it is in fact not immediately obvious that such processes can be described in any sense as practical.

These things were happening in my life where I was like, 'Man, I wish my pops was here to see this.' I never had those thoughts before fame, when my life was just a regular life. I wasn't saying, 'I wish my dad could be around and see me working at Applebee's.'

I grew up in Montpelier, Indiana. It's a little town in the northeast corner of Indiana. It's a rural community; about two thousand people, a very much hometown U.S.A. kind of thing.

When I was a boy, all the books I owned fit on a single shelf. Now I have several thousand stacked around the house.

It's not just that everyone has a story. It's that everyone has a thousand stories. Everyone is infinite.

Heirlooms we don't have in our family. But stories we've got.

Life is not a matter of milestones, but of moments.

It was impossible to explain. The new moon, the snow, the dusky smell of burning logs -- the whole evening had throbbed with some sweet haunting anguish of the soul. The word came to her. Nostalgia--for something that was hers and seemed already passed.

Life isn't a matter of milestones, but of moments.

And it is silence that she hears, the silence of lost years that have no voice left in them.

I did have a beautiful life. It ended early, that's all.

Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don't even remember leaving open.

Oh, and by the way, I sure thought about him a lot for someone I never wanted to see again.

Afterward, Sara didn't really remember falling asleep, still wearing her robe although she meant to get dressed and had had Serafina lay out a pair of jeans and a blouse for her. In any case, she had slept. And there had been dreams -- of the unsettling kind she didn't want to recall.

I keep trying to bring back what is gone, the sunny, bygone years of my childhood," she would write over thirty years later, as if acknowledging the impossibility of this.40 From the child's point of view, the world may have been undiluted sun, though with a child's intuition, she must already have sensed the cracks in her paradise. From an adult perspective, it was a labyrinthine tangle of pain and

All of them knew me, too. They knew that I had been a bad daughter and that my father had been a bad father, but that he had loved me all the same, as I loved him."21 This was the one fact she had to hold on to, as if, were she to let go of this belief, she would disappear. Once she said, "It was as though my father were at the center of a black circle and anyone who ventured inside vanished or was destroyed in one way or another.

My most dear, we have fought many fights together, and this is the last of them and it must be the best. If it is given to men to remember in the life we go to, remember that I loved you, and do not forget that you loved me.

I know someone who has never been able to read _The Cuckoo Clock_ since leaving her girlhood home, because it had to be read sitting halfway up the stairs, where the light through a stained-glass landing window fell on it, staining the pages red and blue and green.