Quotes About Memories

Et quand il est mort, je me suis aperçu que ce n'était pas lui que je pleurais, mais les choses qu'il faisait.

Everyone must leave something behind when he dies

I see my grandfather there looking up at that strange drifting light, thinking his own still thoughts. I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done, I knew there would never be another night like this.

They had been hiding out, waiting, given shelter by my intuitive self, all these years. For I am that special freak, the man with the child inside who remembers all.

He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never gotten over his death. Often I think, what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never gotten over his death. Often I think what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands? He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

Once he saw her shaking a walnut tree, he saw her sitting on the lawn knitting a blue sweater, three or four times he found a bouquet of late flowers on his porch, or a handful of chestnuts in a little sack, or some autumn leaves neatly pinned to a sheet of white paper and thumb-tacked to his door.

Y cuando murió, comprendí que yo no lloraba por él, sino por todas las cosas que hacía. Lloraba porque nunca volvería a hacerlas.

Todos temos que abandonar algo quando morremos, dizia-me o meu avô. Uma criança, um livro, um quadro, uma casa, um muro ou um par de sapatos. Ou um jardim acabado de plantar. Algo que tenhamos tocado de uma certa forma, para que a nossa alma possa ter um sítio para onde ir quando morrermos. E quando depois olharem para essa árvore ou essa flor que plantámos, é como se olhassem para nós.

Todos deben dejar algo al morir, decía mi abuelo. Un niño o un libro o un cuadro o una casa o una pared o un par de zapatos. O un jardín. Algo que las manos de uno han tocado de algún modo. El alma tendrá entonces adonde ir el día de la muerte, y cuando la gente mire ese árbol, o esa flor, allí estará uno. No

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did.

All dead cities have some kind of ghosts in them. Memories, I mean.

And then they were at the end of the line, the silver tracks, abandoned for eighteen years, ran on into rolling country. In 1910 people took the trolley out to Chessman's Park with vast picnic hampers. The track, never ripped up, still lay rusting among the hills.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I was crying because he would never do them again...

Quando morì, io mi accorsi ad un tratto che non piangevo per lui, ma per tutte le cose che aveva fatto.

When it is a long damp November in my soul, and I think too much and perceive too little, I know it is high time to get back to that boy with the tennis shoes, the high fevers, the multitudinous joys, and the terrible nightmares.

It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books.

It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead...

I suppose everybody must be always just a little homesick.

I remember staying to look at it for a long time, as one would linger within reach of a consoling whisper. The sky was pearly grey. It was one of those overcast days so rare in the tropics, in which memories crowd upon one, memories of other shores, of other faces.

Ustedes, todos ustedes, han obtenido algo de la vida: dinero, amor-cosas en tierra firme-, pero, ¿acaso el tiempo en que estuvimos embarcados no fue el mejor de nuestras vidas? Cuando éramos jóvenes en la mar; jóvenes sin nada, sobre la mar que nada regala, excepto buenos golpes y momentos para ponerte a prueba, sólo eso, ¿no sientes haberlo perdido?

You, too! it seemed to say, you, too, shall taste of that peace and that unrest in a searching intimacy with your own self - obscure as we were and as supreme in the face of all the winds and all the seas, in an immensity that receives no impress, preserves no memories, and keeps no reckoning of lives.

After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that's supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over.

it is such a long time since we both turned saints, that you may have forgotten we, too, sinned in our time?