Quotes About Memories

Tužne uspomene dugo drijemaju u jednom od bezbrojnih šupljina sje?anja, godinama, desetlje?ima, ?itavog života. Zatim jednog lijepog dana isko?e na površinu, bol koja ih prati iznova je prisutna, snažna i oštra kao onog davnog dana.

I ricordi tristi sonnecchiano per tanto tempo in una delle innumerevoli caverne del ricordo, stanno li anche per anni. Per decenni, per tutta una vita. Poi, un bel giorno, tornano in superficie, il dolore che li aveva accompagnati è di nuovo presente, intenso e pungente come lo era quel giorno di tanti anni fa.

los muertos pesan, no tanto por la ausencia, como por todo aquello que entre ellos y nosotros no ha sido dicho.

Da ich lange gelebt habe und von vielen Menschen zurückgelassen wurde, weiß ich unterdessen, daß die Toten einen nicht durch ihre Abwesenheit belasten, sondern durch das, was - zwischen ihnen und uns - nicht ausgesprochen wurde.

So many events and moments that seemed insignificant add up. I remember how for the last Valentine´s Day, N gave flowers but no card. In restaurants, he looked off into the middle distance while my hand would creep across the table to hold his. He would always let go first. I realize I can´t remember his last spontaneous gesture of affection.

You're going to say goodbye, go and get your closure. In a hundred years when you're just a haze on the water.

So, if an octopus is this smart, Steve asked Bill, what other animals are out there that could be this smart--that we don't think of as being sentient and having personality and memories and all these things?

The dead have a long reach. And they can be patient. They wait till you are ready, and then they seep back into your heart and crack it open.

Our cells react in very real, literal ways to the memories from this life and previous ones that our spirit minds infuse them with, whether our conscious minds are aware of those memories or not. And so by accessing those cell memories, we can rid ourselves of long-buried illness, phobias, pain, and trauma, and also re-create the greatest emotional and physical health our spirits have ever enjoyed.

my Jolie. Jolie was a West Highland terrier and the

Do I want to be enslaved by my memories, or do I want to simply see them as episodes that, painful as they are, have helped me gain strength and become who I am today?

If you leave, we lose and our pasts win.

She was my wife. My most valuable possession; I treasured her. But I loved her slutty and dirty, too. A sexual object for my pleasure. The one woman who could silence the memories in my head and set me free.

Sabía cómo se sentía: aquellas náuseas en su estómago que se extendían como el cáncer, la rabia, la impotencia y la necesidad de acurrucarse en privado y buscar la fuerza para volver a meter los recuerdos en aquel agujero profundo y oscuro donde seguían viviendo.

Es mejor haber amado y perdido después que no haber amado nunca.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

There was a beautiful time...

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh had gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I record here the actions of optical nerves, of taste buds, of sensory perception. And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

And while Constantin and I sat in one of those hushed plush auditoriums in the UN, next to a stern muscular Russian girl with no makeup who was a simultaneous interpreter like Constantin, I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

And this is how it stiffens, my vision of that seaside childhood. My father died, we moved inland. Whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle—beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete, a fine, white flying myth.

the whole sprawling paraphernalia of suburban childhood.

I was only purely happy until I was nine years old. I had never really been happy again.

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the grey scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old. After that--in spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and the water-color lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college with crewing in the mist before breakfast and blackbottom pies and the little new firecrackers of ideas going off every day-- I had never been really happy again.