Quotes About Memories

I'm nostalgic for the anger I once had.

They say it's the good girls who keep diaries. The bad girls never have the time. Me, I just wanna live a life I'm gonna remember even if I don't write it down.

Å bli møkkete og havne i kivinger med gutta var vel akkurat slike ting barndommen handlet om.

Å, som hun savnet de svale, tåkete morgenene hjemme i Irland. Lukten av regn og gress, havet som slo inn mot de svarte klippene og den beske lukten av brennende torv i ovnen. (...) Velda tvang bort de forræderske tankene på Irland. Hun visste de bare dukket opp i svake stunder, og hun visste at hun ville følge mannen sin til verdens ende - selv om det var varmt som i helvetet og dobbelt så ubehagelig.

Vinden hadde stilnet, og nå, mens luften tyknet og et kobberskarpt lyn fortengte den milde duften av eukalyptus og akasie, mintes hun de første årene av sitt ekteskap. Fortiden tok henne igjen, visket ut nåtiden, og ble så livaktig at det var som om de mellomliggende årene aldri hadde eksistert.

Life is full of choices, ma'am. Most we live once, then move on and forget. But others" - he narrowed his eyes - "we live a thousand times over and remember for the rest of our days. What's impostant is knowin' how to tell 'em apart. And then decidin' if you's willin' to pay the price. 'Cause choices...they always come at a price.

And she found the weight of grief at missing him eased somewhat by dwelling on what a blessing he'd been and how much poorer her life would be if she'd never known him.

My memories of them had rubbed thin with overuse, worn to frail color transparencies flickering on the walls of my mind

and our footsteps rang and echoed till it sounded like the room was full of dancers, the house calling up all the people who had danced here across centuries of spring evenings, gallant girls seeing gallant boys off to war, old men and women straight-backed while outside their world disintegrated and the new one battered at their doors, all of them bruised and all of them laughing, welcoming us into their long lineage.

And God the taste of undercover on my tongue again, the brush of it down the little hairs on my arms. I'd thought I remembered what it was like, every detail, but I'd been wrong: memories are nothing, soft as gauze against the ruthless razor-fineness of that edge, beautiful and lethal, one tiny slip and it'll slice to the bone.

Something rippled round the table: a loosening, a settling, a long sigh too low to hear. Un ange passe, my French grandfather would have said: an angel is passing. Somewhere upstairs I heard the faint, dreamy note of a clock striking.

Nobody knows you like people you grew up with.

I love messy homes, homes where a woman and kids have left their mark on every inch: sticky finger marks down the walls, trinkets and nests of pastel hair-gadgets on the mantelpiece, that smell of flowery things and ironing.

I hate nostalgia, it's laziness with prettier accessories,

When she was a little kid she would trot along holding his hand and tell him everything, good and bad, it all poured straight from her heart to her mouth. He can't remember when that changed.

People you knew when you were teenagers, the ones who saw your stupidest haircut and the most embarrassing things you've done in your life, and they still cared about you after all that: they're not replaceable, you know?

I don't want to give the impression that my life was blighted by what happened at Knocknaree, that I drifted through twenty years as some kind of tragic figure with a haunted past, smiling sadly at the world from behind a bittersweet veil of cigarette smoke and memories.

Wir kannten uns, seit wir in Windeln gesteckt hatten, aber das war der Sommer, als sich alles veränderte, so schnell, dass wir nicht mehr mitkamen.

I spent a lot of the holidays at Charlie's home in Herefordshire, learning to drive on his

Cal doesn't think about Donna constantly, the way he did at first-- it took months of dogged work, blasting music or reciting football lineups out loud like a loon every time she came into his head, but he got there in the end. She still crops up from time to time, though, mostly when he runs across something that would make her smile. He always loved Dona's smile, quick and complete, sending every line of her face flying upwards.

Your past is your shadow. It has form but no substance, except in the places you allow it to touch you.

Is that your lesson?" she asked him. "I'm sorry to hear that, because you always said just the opposite. Love what you have while you have it, before it's gone. Isn't that what you were always trying to tell me?" Her damp eyes glimmered.

Though we come and go, and pass into the shadows, where we leave behind us stories told — on paper, on the wings of butterflies, on the wind, on the hearts of others — there we are remembered, there we work magic and great change — passing on the fire like a torch — forever and forever. Till the sky falls, and all things are flawless and need no words at all.

Zoe Rutherford wasn't sure what she was expecting when she returned to Sullivan's Island. The house on Sullivan's hadn't represented home to her in decades. It was the place where she endured her father's cruelty. It was the place where her mother