Quotes About Memories

Yes'm, old friends is always best, 'less you can catch a new one that's fit to make an old one out of.

In the life of each of us there is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness.

An apartment in New York City tells many truths. It shows where you really stand, relationally. It shows when you came, how much you had, and what kind of people you knew. Her apartment was lonely.

Right now, when I think of all my AIDS dead, one of the things they all have in common is about forty conversations just like the one Dave and I had, where each guy talked about death in his own way. Later, they get sick and die in very predictable patterns. Lets face it, this death itself is no longer extraordinary, emotionally, to me.

I think the only answer is to live life to the fullest while you can and collect memories like fools collect money. Because in the end, that's all you have - happy memories.

I love photography. My boyfriend's got a great camera, which I bought for his birthday.

My locket hangs in my closet beside the glass, the only shining thing among so many shadows.

Or were those trifles all you had? Oughtn't you, precisely, to preserve them? To make little crystal drops of them, that you could keep, like charms on a bracelet, to tell against danger when next it came?

That she cried over the loss of a dog whose big claim to fame was that he could eat the crotch out of a pair of clean underpants in less than a minute?

Then what he said and how he said it won't be important any more. What will be important are all the things you never got to say.

It wasn't hard to imagine them surrounded by their families as they did the last of their breathing. Said their goodbyes. Kissed cheeks. No luggage to check in. Leave your body with us, I thought. We'll look after that.

To truly know death, you'd have to have loved.

I very rarely came across rude or disrespectful people. I don't know how I slipped by all of them, but I honestly can't think of one experience off the top of my head that was like that. I'm sure they're there, but I'd have to think really hard to recall them.

Betrayal bleeds backward into the past, putting doubts and worries into what were once wonderful memories of connection. Betrayal is poison not just for the present, but for the past and the future too.

we met shoe shopping and she asked me out. over drinks she said aren't you going to kiss me? when i dumped her over the phone four months later, she told me i had been a lovely person to love.

What I mean to say is no, I don't want her back, just words hanging like leaves from a tree limb, nothing can bring her back anyway; words wouldn't build her bit by bit, piece by piece, she's gone, and there is strength in knowing that. Maybe the longing will ease. Maybe the seconds will lapse into minutes. I'm not Christ – I can't raise the dead.

when it's time to break down and you're lying in bed fighting off the urge to scream, when you're lying there shivering, it's not the memories that keep you going. instead it's the dreams and the cats blaring evil and godlike into the blankness. at times like this, it's best just to sit back and let what is be.

Q: What is the most common remark made by old people in antique stores? A: "I remember these.

Memories are a bane, little bird, like a thorn lodged in your eye. Cut them out, if you can, or they'll do nothing but haunt you in your dotage.

Before I forget, I keep a notebook (and more recently a voice recorder) with me at all times. Why? Because I never know when a good idea is going to come along. The first step to a great game is a great idea. Don't lose that great idea. Make sure you write it down!

nothing from the summer carries more lasting allure for me than the memory of sitting with Ruth on the bank of a stream on campus, taking turns reading aloud from the books we held on our laps, while the wind wet leaves gossiping in the old trees above us and the creek rustled in its stony bed.

I find it hard not to think of our home as a chrysalis from which the butterfly has flown. I miss my daughter. The rug bristles with the absence of her dancing feet. The windows glint with the history of her looking. Water rings on the sills recall where her teacup should be. The air lacks a sweet buzz.

Camille died a few days later. Our daughter's hearts bear the first real cracks they have had to endure since we came into each other's lives. Our girls had a lot of laughs to give Camille in the years ahead; she had a lot of love for them. But I think that some lives are like diamonds. They pack a lot of light and brilliance into a small space.

Children connect you to eternity," she wrote us. "They're like notes to be opened after we die.