Quotes About Memories

Juventud divino tesoro Ya te vas para no volver Quando quiero llorar no lloro Y a veces lloro sin querer

I grew up in the '80s, and there was no bigger group than New Edition in R&ampB. I broke my piggy bank so me and my mom could go to a New Edition concert together.

The Shapiras brought me the book "The Road to Miltown" by S.J. Perelman, and I still have it. It's moved with me across the country, put up in innumerable bookshelves, for almost fifty years. It's showing signs of wear. (Hell, so am I, but we're both still good to take to bed.)

When I was a child I remember days that stretched into infinity with the certainty of other infinite days; certain, unhurried and brimmingly full.

Fool! You may hate me...But I...I haven't stopped thinking of you for a single day.

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes, And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands. The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies. I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands, Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned. There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking; And over the unmoving sea, without a sound.

Il Museo delle Lacrime significava molto di più di quanto il suo nome potesse suggerire. Non si trattava solo di file di bottigliette di vetro identiche, malgrado già questo, se ci pensavi bene, diceva molto sull'uguaglianza. Si trattava di persone che tastavano di aggrapparsi alla felicità che avevano conosciuto.

You know how old I am? I'm so old, I remember when Letterman used to be funny and it was presidents who were serious. That's how old I am.

Looking back on those childhood days, I carry in my mind a picture of grandmother in her rocking chair with a contented owlet sprawled across her aproned lap. Once, on entering a room while she was taking her afternoon nap, I saw one of the owlets had crawled up her pillow til its head was snuggled under her ear. Both grandmother and the owlet were snoring.

I am most at home in small places—Shamli and Saharanpur; Darjeeling and Dehra; Karnal and Kasauli; Meerut and Mussoorie….These are the places I know best, and where I have found my friends and heroes, and my stories.

Some people become an integral part of our lives; others are ships that pass in the night. Short stories, in fact. My

But only yesterdays are truly splendid … And there are other singers, sweeter than I, to sing of tomorrow. I can only write of today, of Pipalnagar, where I have lived and loved.

Have you been in love before?' 'Many times. But this is the first time.

Some memories are best left untouched.

That first day at school, maybe an agonising parting from your parents. The face of a loved one lost. A pullover knitted by your granny. A favourite toy. A doll, perhaps. A book of rhymes, tattered and torn. Someone who gave you a flower, a kiss on the forehead. To the end of your days you will carry that kiss with you. And may it protect you from all harm.

Winding its way towards the plains. And the land stretched out before me, and the years fell away, And I was a boy again, And the friends of my youth were there beside me, And nothing had changed. 'Remember the Old Road

they will take you back to a time when life was not so full of care and there was time to stand and stare. But not for too long, or the train would leave without you!

there's no harm in indulging in a little nostalgia. What is nostalgia, after all, but an attempt to preserve that which was good in the past?

I have written about moonlight bathing the Taj and the sun beating down on the Coromandel coast—and so have others—but who will celebrate little Fosterganj? And so I decided to write this account of the friends I made there—a baker, a banker, a pickpocket, a hare-lipped youth, an old boozer of royal descent, and a few others—to remind myself that there had been such a place, and that it had once been a part of my life.

We must move on, of course. There's no point in hankering after distant pleasures and lost picture palaces. But there's no harm in indulging in a little nostalgia. What is nostalgia, after all, but an attempt to preserve that which was good in the past? And

Those were the days of simple living. You don't see two-rupee notes any more. You don't see walking sticks either. Hardly anyone walks.

We said goodbye. 'Remember this day, Ruskin,' said my father. He patted me gently on the head and walked away. I never saw him again. Three months later I heard that he had passed away in the military hospital in Calcutta. I dream of him sometimes, and in my dream he is always the same, caring for me and leading me by the hand along old familiar roads.

I bought the records. Can't play them now. No wind-up gramophone! But I am a sentimental fellow and I keep them among my souvenirs as a reminder of the days when I walked home alone across the silent, moonlit parade ground, after the evening show was over.

How evanescent those loves and friendships seem at this distance in time…We move on, make new attachments. We grow old. But sometimes, we hanker for old friendships, the old loves. Sometimes I wish I was young again. Or that I could travel back in time and pick up the threads. Absent so long, I may have stopped loving you, friends; but I will never stop loving the Day I loved you.