Quotes About Reminiscence

It is the luxury of looking backward. You can do it forever, and it is useless.

he had understood that memory was a place, a real place that one could visit, and that to spend a few moments among the dead was not necessarily bad for you, that it could in fact be a source of great comfort and happiness.

I wasn't able to think about them directly or summon them up in any conscious way, but as I put together their puzzles and played with their Lego pieces, building evermore complex and baroque structures, I felt that I was temporarily inhabiting them again--carrying on their little phantom lives for them by repeating the gestures they had made when they still had bodies.

No es que no pensara más en él, sino que parecía interesarse más por su recuerdo que por continuar en contacto

And it reminded me of when we used to come down, be staying for a few days in the hotel at Russell Square, the President Hotel. We were little kids, you know? We

Does your heart still throb at my very name? Do you still see my soul in your dreams? from "Sentimental Dialogue

She can't understand that books don't get used up. I've tried to explain that they aren't like clothes or furniture-that we keep them because we might want to read them again. And because they remind us of how we felt when we read them.

How close people could be to us when they had gone as far away as possible, to the edges of the map. How unforgettable.

Memories, made to last forever<3

he who forgets will be destined to remember...

To express nostalgia for a childhood we no longer share is to deny the actual significance and humanity of children.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if remembering unfinished conversations, and then went back to place some damp, slow-burning turf on the fire.

I once had a book on the stars but now I don't. My memory serves but not stellar, ha. So I made up constellations. I made a Bear and a Goat but maybe not where they are supposed to be, I made some for the animals that once were, the ones I know about.

But lying one night in my old bunk under a wide open window listening to a screech owl trying to terrify me with a woman's screams and only making me happy—the bittersweet cry of undigestible beauty and great impending loss—then it came to me: the obvious epiphany that he was reliving his life. Doh. Slide by slide, picture by picture. He was aggregating memory like a wall against extinction and the little boxes of slides were his bricks.

He would have given his own life gladly to hear her sing to him one more time.

Around a child, people come and go, objects appear and are taken away, surroundings take shape and disintegrate. And no explanation is given, because how can you explain the world to a child? So she had used the words. Words call forth and secure that which has gone away. With her lists she had ensured that whatever she had once known would come back