Quotes About Reminiscence

My dad died right after performing at the Friars' roast for Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. I have that tape somewhere. There's still a lot of good jokes in there. I mean, that was 1958.

I appeared on a show with Jonathan Harris on it-the Bill Dana show-even before Lost In Space. Someone gave me a tape of it in the past year, but in all these years we hadn't remembered.

The process was remarkably cathartic. I'd sit and listen to my father's voice - having not heard some of these tapes for 30 years and hearing his voice laying me down for a nap, our giggles and cooking dinner - and I remembered all those wonderful days. Normal days.

I'm always grateful for any kind of moment that keeps my memories alive and gives me a little taste of the excitement I used to get all the time.

We are good at stories. We hoard them, like an old woman in a room full of boxes, but now and then we pull out our best, and spread them out. We talk of the bad years when the cotton didn't open, and the day my cousin Wanda was washed in the Blood. We buff our beloved ancestors until they are smooth of sin, and give our scoundrels a hard shake, although sometimes we can't remember exactly which is who.

You never know when you're making a memory Rickie Lee Jones, from "Young Blood," Ricki Lee Jones (1979)

If a person is missing someone for a very long time, he can imagine seeing the one that he misses.

I mean, I was born the day war broke out, but I don't remember all the bombs though they did actually break up Liverpool, you know. I remember when I was a little older, there was big gaps in all the streets where houses used to be. We used to play over them.

Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix-tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

The overwhelming sorrow of finding a cup of tea you forgot about.

Look through the reels of your memory and embrace them with gratitude.

I can speak these words and perhaps you can see these things clearly because you are using your imagination. But I cannot imagine these things because I lived them, and to remember them with the vividness I know they should have is impossible. They are lost to me.

He would get up and go out into a world which seemed very unfamiliar, but with a tantalizing unfamiliarity like the world of boyhood to which an old man returns.

I did not understand my complex of feeling. Particularly as she was saying, 'Yes, I'm sorry I ever met you. Ever. If I hadn't I wouldn't have to go through this Awfulness, the awfulest part being that I'll remember you. Always.' — Robert Penn Warren, from "Goodbye," Uncollected Poems 1943-1989, The Collected Poems of Robert Penn Warren , ed. John Burt (Louisiana State University Press, 1998)

That's one splendid thing about such affairs — it's so lovely to look back to them.

She felt very old and mature and wise—which showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to go back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist of hope and illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had passed away forever. Where was it now—the glory and the dream?

Så egendomligt overklig denna våning redan hade blivit! Det var inte en våning där någon bodde, utan en bild av en våning där någon hade bott. Precis som Goethehuset i Weimar eller August Strindbergs arbetsrum på Drottninggatan. En våning kunde bli en bild av sig själv när den inte längre var befolkad. Den var densamma som förut. Men den hade stelnat till bild.

We only really remember things for five years. After that, what we remember, what's actually etched in our brain is our memory of the thing, not the thing itself. And five years after that, what's left is our memory of the memory.

I'd remember Matt, and I'd remember him wrong. And that was probably when I'd miss him most.

We only really remember things for five years. After that, what we remember, what's actually etched in our brain, is our memory of the thing, not the thing itself. And five years after that, what's left is our memory of the memory. You follow me?

Gertrudis got onto her horse and rode away. She wasn't riding alone--she carried her childhood beside her, in the cream fritters she had enclosed in a jar in her saddlebag.

No le fue fácil meter en la maleta el día en que hicieron su primera comunión las tres juntas. La vela, el libro y la foto afuera de la iglesia cupieron muy bien, pero no así el sabor de los tamales y del atole que Nacha les había preparado y que habían comido después en compañía de sus amigos y familiares.

You don't want to hear about the time I was a naughty little boy.