Quotes About Memories

Arthur Anderson, one of the players and a steady voice on Let's Pretend for years, recalled it decades later. Chamlee sang two songs per broadcast. He returned to the Met for the 1935–37 seasons. Anderson also remembered a commercial blooper by Ruffner: "Friends, do you wake up in the morning feeling dull, loggy, and lust-less?

It seems clear to me at this time that we are not dealing with "false" or confabulated memories.

Incidentally, one should make a distinction, as Freud did a long time ago, between mental items that are not conscious but that can be brought to consciousness with effort, like the things in our memories—Freud called that mental domain the preconscious—and things in the unconscious that are unavailable and cannot be recalled. We simply don't know they are there.

Unlike some older brothers, I never set him on fire, or cut off an arm or leg, or drowned him in the tub.

Unlike some older brothers, I never set him on fire, or cut off an arm or a leg, or drowned him in the tub.

One of the hardest things about my emotional awakening was the way it reshaped so many of my memories. It may sound crazy, but all too often, it turned formerly good memories bad. And there's no balance. There's not a single bad memory that's now turned to good. (Page 211, the first paragraph of the "Rewriting History" chapter)

Most of the time, I played by myself, with my toys. I liked the more complex toys, especially blocks and Lincoln Logs. I still remember the taste of Lincoln Logs.

I had thought of many things since knowing her, but never her death. For all her years, she nourished a love in me. Now it was gone. Now that she was dead I could think of her no longer. I had sobbed and whimpered and wept until it was all gone, all of it, and as always I found myself alone in the world.

Halt nodded his thanks. "Good work," he said, and Gilan grinned at the praise. Must remember to do that more often, Halt thought. He recalled his own younger days, when words of praise were few and far between...

Ze wist al aan welk prettig ding ze zou denken als Keren weer aan kwam zetten met zijn steen.

Born On The Bayou

Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.

everything is gone except traces of you inside me - and the years like the wind are sweeping those away ...

The heart mourns people and places and returns to them in dreams...

before you, life was desolate - the past hardly worth remembering - and now, each moment a keepsake I can't throw away ...

strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...

we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...

when I was a kid, Toronto streets were deserted and quiet on Sundays, except for the sound of church bells I stood on the sidewalk one December listening to the Christmas bells - I've never forgotten that moment...

we live in the same city but don't see the same things - you see buildings and I see memories...

it's not the stories - it's the pain and the joy and the people who stay with you long after the stories are told ...

I pluck every day from my sweater or chair, red hairs...strands of significance, traces of you in my life ...

you forget love - though you fled from them, you secretly loved the monsters of your childhood...

If I ever got sloppy and maudlin, it would be for the streets of my childhood—but no self- respecting writer should ever eulogize a slum...

Venice had no memories of her father, a policeman killed in the line of duty before she was born, and it was a source of pain that she'd never truly overcome. For as long as she could remember, she'd always dreamed about what her father might have sounded like and smelled like. The picture on Mama's dresser gave her a face, but she'd never know the voice that went with it.