Quotes About Memories

I learned to read at the age of five, in Brother Justiniano's class at the De la Salle Academy in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space...

I was very young and lived with my grandparents in a villa with white walls in the Calle Ocharan, in Miraflores.

Y sigo pensando que, a pesar de haber vivido ya tantos veranos, aquél fue el más fabuloso de todos.

Ik heb al het mogelijke gedaan om haar te vergeten, maar eerlijk gezegd is dat nutteloos.

Había sentido un dedicado malestar, una quieta nostalgia. ¿El amor, Zavalita? Entonces nunca habías estado enamorado de Aída, piensa. ¿O el amor era ese gusano en las tripas que sentías años atrás? Piensa: entonces nunca de Ana, Zavalita.

hollín. El museo era sólo el sobreviviente pabellón donde se podía ver un loro disecado que le sirvió de modelo para Un Coeur simple y una de las piedras labradas que trajo de Túnez cuando escribía Salammbô. Había también unas pocas fotos amarillentas y

MVLL: Pero ¿no hay una nostalgia en usted de cosas no hechas por haber dedicado tanto tiempo a la vida puramente intelectual? JLB: Creo que no. Creo que a la larga uno vive esencialmente todas las cosas y lo importante no son las experiencias, sino lo que uno hace con ellas.

Juventud, cuyo recuerdo desespera!

como la llamábamos yo y mi mamá)

Life was a freight train barreling toward just one stop, our loved ones streaking past our windows in blurs of color and light. There was no holding on to any of it, and no slowing it down.

I was aware now, as ever, that between all people there were First Times You See Them and Last Times you See Them.

Everyone smiles for a photograph.

My films are just stories, but that's all we have, the stories we tell others and the stories we tell ourselves. When you talk to the elderly, men and women at the end of their lives, you see that's what's left behind as the body disintegrates. Our stories. Our children will decide whether or not to keep telling them.

Time leeches most horror and pain from our memories.

Nora, biting her lip, pointed at the small end table on my right, where there was a black-and-white photograph in an antique silver frame. It was Olivia standing with her husband, Knightly, probably some twenty years ago. They had their arms around each other, posing beside an antique Bentley in front of a colossal country manor. They looked happy, but, of course, that didn't say much. Everyone smiles for a photograph.

Life had been a suit I'd only put on for special occasions. Most of the time I'd kept it in the back of my closet, forgetting it was there. We were meant to die when it was barely stitched anymore, when the elbows and knees were stained with grass and mud, shoulder pads uneven from people hugging you all the time, down pours and blistering sun, the fabric faded, buttons gone.

Mostly I thought of Martha, who she was and what she had done for me. There wasn't a moment of my life that I didn't owe to her. Sometimes it rendered me listless and sad, made me say no to the frat party, the Sunday-night pizza feast, the Spring Fling, and I'd hole up alone in my dorm, drawing or writing lyrics, left with the painful truth of it, how the people who change us are the ones we never saw clearly at all, not until they were gone.

Life had been a suit I'd only put on for special occasions. Most of the time I kept it in the back of my closet, forgetting it was there. We were meant to die when it was barely stitched anymore, when the elbows and knees were stained with grass and mud, shoulder pads uneven from people hugging you all the time, downpours and blistering sun, the fabric faded, buttons gone.

To my father, who told me the stories that matter. To my mother, who taught me to remember them.

Nothing's worse than saying goodbye. It's a little like dying.

It comes every year and will go on forever. And along with Christmas belong the keepsakes and the customs. Those humble, everyday things a mother clings to, and ponders, like Mary in the secret spaces of her heart.

At Christmas, all roads lead home.

It was all quite ghastly and I was very fond of it.

A better time. A simpler time,' said the Doctor. 'That's what we all yearn for. The pain of wanting to belong somewhere. To go home.