Quotes About Memories

All really good picture books are meant to be read five-hundred times.

Let her be with her memories. Better that than be aware of this reality.

It's only a house, she thought. But it was more, too. It was Tibby's elaborate, respectable shrine to a family life that had long ago ebbed out of it.

Mair sat down on the bed. The ancient pink electric blanket was still stretched from corner to corner, and she thought of the weeks of her father's last illness when she had come home to the valley to nurse him, as best she could, and to keep him company. They had enjoyed long, rambling conversations about the past and the people her father had once known.

Not one-not one single moment of time past can ever be got back. Not one little thing can escape change and death. Lost, the early Republic of our agrarian dream. We fought for it in battle and destroyed the thing we fought for. Lost, the years of our youth. They were good days and many, and they are all gone. And think of all the girls, John, the lovely girls, the lushloined girls who have gone down into the gulf of years.

It was a small room, and it was as crowded with coffee- and end-tables, chairs and hassocks and bookcases, as a second-hand furniture store. The horizontal surfaces were littered with gewgaws, shells and framed photographs, vases and pincushions and doilies. If the lady had come down in the world, she'd brought a lot down with her. My sensation of stepping into the past was getting too strong for comfort. The half-armed chair closed on me like a hand.

daughter?' 'She was a beautiful child.' Mrs Williams's eyes grew misty with the quasi-maternal feelings of a procuress.

It's interesting to come back to your childhood home. And creepy, too, like becoming very young and very old, both at the same time. The spirit that haunts the house.' That

It's interesting to come back to your childhood home. And creepy, too, like becoming very young and very old, both at the same time. The spirit that haunts the house.' That was how she looked, I thought, in her archaic long skirt – very young and very old, the granddaughter and the grandmother in one person, slightly schizo. She

Los muertos no hacen daño. Los vivos son quienes nos lastiman.

Approach a trip as a chance to collect unique experiences, not passport stamps, postcards and snapshots in front of famous monuments.

Never regret love," she says. "That's my motto. I don't ever regret having loved someone too much, only not loving someone enough.

Under the crust of that portion of Earth called the United States of America—"from California . . . to the Gulf Stream waters"—are interred the bones, villages, fields, and sacred objects of American Indians. They cry out for their stories to be heard through their descendants who carry the memories of how the country was founded and how it came to be as it is today. [opening lines of the Introduction; ellipsis sic].

There. I said it. "Anne is my best friend: I say that in the present tense because I don't like to think of her as gone. Instead, I think of her as...away. Off someplace where I can't talk to her everyday like I used to.

After an awkward beat, she takes off, leaving me alone and inches away from the guy I used to pillow-kiss when I first knew there was such a thing as kissing and that pillows were for practicing said art.

I know if you hold on tight to faith and memories, they'll always be with you.

Pero mi corazón es más brillante que todas las estrellas del cielo, porque brilla para Annie, abrasado por la luz del amor de mi Annie, por el recuerdo de los bellos ojos luminosos de mi Annie....

A alma é o lugar onde o amor guarda o que não aconteceu, sob a forma da imaginação, para que aconteça sempre.

Um velório deveria ter a beleza do outono, toda a beleza do último adeus.

Os Natais de hoje ficaram diferentes. Há um ar triste de nostalgia, saudade indefinida, não se sabe de quê.

É. Naqueles tempos de infância a gente sonhava. Os sonhos eram pequenos e cabiam num sapato. Hoje os sapatos são muito maiores. Só que não nos esquecemos dos sonhos. De modo que não há presente que nos faça sorrir... Já não sabemos o nome da nossa verdade. Daí a nostalgia sem remédio.

As fantasias de infância são as memórias transfiguradas pela saudade.

Memórias. Parece estranho, mas o fato é que memórias são também objetos que acumulamos. Estão guardadas no nosso tesouro.

momentos de amor leve com as pessoas que amo, e uma infinidade de cenas, como se fossem fotografias, que ficaram gravadas na minha memória. Quando eu morrer, vão se perder. Mas não quero que se percam. Tenho de dá-las para alguém que tome conta delas. Aí me vem a aflição por escrever. Quando escrevo, estou lutando contra a morte. A morte das coisas que o meu amor ajuntou e que vão se perder quando eu morrer.