Quotes About Memories

Un pauvre garçon qui n'avait rien d'autre à proposer alla jusqu'à dire, avec une fierté manifeste à ce souvenir : « Eh bien, moi, une fois, Tom Sawyer m'a battu ! »

my point being, what if my attacks are enterly unrelated attributable in fact to something entirely else, perhaps for instance just warning shocks brought on by my own crumbling biology, tiny flakes of unknown chemical origin already burning holes through the fabric of my mind, dismantling memories, undoing even the strongest powers of imagination and reason? how then do you fly from that path?

The paramedics said there was nothing unusual, just the way it goes, eighty some years and the inevitable kerplunk, the system goes down, lights blink out and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except to the one who can't take any of them along.

She said memories mean all, but they are all dead.

there's no second ive lived you can't call your own

Perhaps one reason Navidson became so enamoured with photography was the way it gave permanence to moments that were often so fleeting.

If Sorrow is deep regret over someone loved , there is nothing but regret here

reminding him of the years he missed.

Goodbye, Papa, you saved me. You taught me to read. No one can play like you. I'll never drink champagne. No one can play like you. -Liesel

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

She even touches Jimmy's face on the photos, and I see what it is to love someone like Milla loved that man. Her fingertips are made of love.

Todo el mundo sabe que una bola de nieve en la cara es el comienzo perfecto de una amistad duradera.

Rudy Steiner temía el beso de la ladrona de libros. Debía de haberlo deseado con todas sus fuerzas. Debió de haberla querido con todo su corazón. Tanto, que nunca más volvería a pedírselo y se iría a la tumba sin él.

We skip the moments like stones.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

People have defining moments, i suppose, especially when they're children.

As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement, her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life. Don't punish yourself, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

And I can promise you something, because it was a thing I saw many years later - a vision in the book thief herself - that as she knelt next to Hans Hubermann, she watched him stand and play the accordion. He stood and strapped it on in the alps of broken houses and played the accordion with kindness silver eyes and even a cigarette slouched on his lips. The bellows breathed and the tall man played for Liesel Meminger one last time as the sky was slowly taken away from her.

Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.

Certainly war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person's feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity.

All four of us were young and undaunted and our smiles were so strong that it made me smile even then on the couch, with a kind of loss.

I am haunted by human