Quotes About Memories

A picture is worth a thousand texts.

It was the same way he looked that at her that night. When he asked her to stay. She gave him the same answer she had back then. No.

We are wolves of the guard, soldiers of the light. Hunted and haunted,bye the beasts of night. Friend to all and foe to none, Love and loyalty bind us as one. Time and tide shall heal all wounds Memories and madness shall not consume. To death and despair we shall never surrender, The pact never to be forsaken, or torn asunder.

We are wolves of the guard, soldiers of the light. Hunted and haunted,by the beasts of night. Friend to all and foe to none, Love and loyalty bind us as one. Time and tide shall heal all wounds Memories and madness shall not consume. To death and despair we shall never surrender, The pact never to be forsaken, or torn asunder.

Too bad there wasn't a Valencia filter to smooth out memories.

If I could go back to my girlhood and its freedom, I would. But that's never possible: life pushes us forward, into more complications than we ever imagined as children.

I got to Versailles, my blissfully simple country childhood would be over.

Sometimes someone just takes a sledgehammer to your heart and even if you still have feelings for them, you can't ever quite feel the way you used to. The innocent part is all gone.

Oh, Jack. Though she was laughing, tears rushed in. You won't see the sun again. Annie. He turned until she rose over him. Gently, his fingers traced the curve of her smile. Yes, I will.

All our experiences are rich colors that make a full life.

Close your eyes, tap your heels together three times, and think to yourself, There's No Place like Home.   —THE WIZARD OF OZ

spent the evening letting Emily call the shots for what she called "a normal Christmas Eve" night—doing everything from drinking eggnog and eating snack food to watching, of course, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Finally they hung up Emily's Christmas stocking—a gift that Joy had tucked in one of her magical bins. Marcus hung it on the far edge of the fireplace to prevent the big crackling fire from scorching it.

She would never truly be her own woman if she allowed fear and old memories to dictate where she would or would not go.

Not enough of us get to tell those who had a hand in building us just how we feel about our pasts, while they're still alive. It wounds the heart, but makes us more whole whenever we can, though. This physical world isn't all there is, but while we have it, this is the one that counts. The words should be spoken.

When all that's left of me is love, Give me away.

How often do you think of all those people who you were never going to forgrt?

Home is a room dappled with firelight: there are pictures and books. And when the rain sighs, and the acorns fall, there are patterns of leaves against the drawn curtains. Home is where I was safe. Home is what I fled from.

His youth had been so long ago that he could remember nothing of it but he presumed, erroneously, that he had tasted the purple fruit, had broken hearts and hymens, had tosses flowers to ladies on balconies, had drunk champagne out of their shoes and generally been irresistible.

Ten slotte, in de namiddag, onder een bekoorlijke herfstlucht, zo'n lucht waaruit verlangens en herinneringen in grote getale neerdalen, ging ze ergens achteraf in een tuin zitten, om, ver van de menigte, naar een van die concerten te luisteren waar de muzikanten van de regimenten de Parijse bevolking op trakteren.

The other final memory, from growing up on the island, is of going on a monster run one day, and getting very bad groin rub on the last mile towards home. I had endured the rubbing for the previous eight miles, but it was now becoming agony. No one was around, the village was deserted, it was a warm summer's evening, so I took my shorts off and continued the final leg of the run naked. No

table sat an antique ormolu clock, its hands frozen on the twelve and the ten, 11:50. The magic hour. The time when Zee's ghosts appeared in the greenhouse wall. Bits and pieces of two scenarios were coming back to her, fitting together like a child's jigsaw puzzle. She had, indeed, come to this place—Mathew Brady's New York studio—a short time earlier to have her portrait made

I had almost forgotten about the bougainvillea, how bright they are, explosions of pink climbing the stucco walls, and how soft the light is in the afternoon, how it makes the colors seem magically deeper and it really does feel like anything is possible. For a long time, that light was enough to sustain me there. [in Los Angeles]

You can tell if a person has come from the war: they are haunted from all the killing they have seen. It

And just as it is with all proper grannies, she ordered me into my pink bunny jammies.