Quotes About Memories

If you are very lucky, you're allowed to be in certain places during just the right season of your life: by the sea for the summer when you're seven or eight and full of the absolute need to swim until dark and exhaustion close their hands together, cupping you in between.

His father was killed when he was only six years old.

How do you get over a first love?" he asks. "You never do," Howard says. "It just stays with you and becomes a part of who you are.

And of course there was the loss of women, some of whom he still woke up aching for. He'd study their remnants alone at night - slips of paper bearing old phone numbers. Photographs. A mitten. In bed he would stare at the ceiling, trying to seize on the exact feeling of a particular woman's head on his chest. It's weight, the smell of her hair.

always talked about her middle sister, my aunt Edna, being afraid of her own shadow as a kid. When

Voltando le spalle al pilota e alla muta scatenata, mi misi a singhiozzare: le lacrime mi si gelavano sul viso, piangevo per la mia infanzia, per quel tempo in cui la neve era un piacere senza fine, in cui una città era uno spazio meraviglioso per vivere e una foresta non era ancora un posto comodo per uccidere la gente.

It was why Lilah did not fear death. So many of the people she loved were waiting for her there.

A 1998—and didn't there always seem to be a 1998 coin in every handful of change?—and a 2013. Still new looking even though it was a few years old now. The coins were still warm. Warmer now for

Norm sighed and read the post for a third time. A whole bunch of different emotions were tumbling round his stomach, like clothes in a washing machine. It was hardly surprising. He and Mikey had been best friends forever. Well, not actually forever obviously, but a long time anyway. Since they were

Often the topography of who we are is not a story, is not constituted in language, but in the concrete things we do, the places we visit, and the people we know and love.

The little office, scarcely large enough to contain Dr. Irene's desk at one end and the couch at the other, held a world of memories for Lily. Here, fifty minutes at a time, two or three times a week, she'd spilled out her hopes and fears, her childhood nightmares and adolescent insecurities – in a sense, she'd grown up in this room.

Of course, weakness is strong. It's the primary impulse. You'd probably prefer to sit in your little room and cry. Live in your finite collection of memories, carefully polishing each one. Half a life set behind glass and pinned to cardboard like a collection of exotic insects. You'd like to live behind that glass, wouldn't you?

So many people enter and leave your life! Hundreds of thousands of people! You have to keep the door open so they can come in! But it also means you have to let them go!

My life story is the story of everyone I've ever met.

We lose the things we do not cherish enough, his one thought, his only thought, as he slips into his workman's tunic, buttons it over his street clothes, and opens the closet door.

I was simply happy to have the chance to be with them again.

Much has happened since last we met, Bartimaeus," he went on. "Do you remember how we parted?" "No." I did. "You set light to me, old friend. Struck a match and left me burning in a copse." The crow shifted uneasily beneath the cleaver."That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland...

And even if you didn't fall in love in the eighties, in your mind it will feel like the eighties, all innocent and airbrushed, with bright colors and shoulder pads and Pat Benetar or the Cure on the soundtrack.

What it must feel like, I thought, to look at something, anything really, and know that it's for the last time?

There's always a last time. If you could remember every last time, you'd never stop grieving.

At some point you lose sight of your actual parents; you just see a basketful of history and unresolved issues.

Time doesn't heal as much as it buries things in the undergrowth of your brain, where they lie in wait to ambush you when you least expect it.

I was sprawled out in my usual position on the couch, half asleep but entirely drunk, torturing myself by tearing memories out of my mind at random like matches from a book, striking them one at a time and drowsily setting myself on fire.

I haven't seen her in a while, haven't returned her calls or stopped thinking about her.