Quotes About Reminiscence

When someone's been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slip out of your hands, and then you're just clutching air and grit.

How do you regret one of the best nights of your entire life? You don't. You remember every word, every look. Even when it hurts, you still remember.

That I miss her. I really miss her. She's only been gone for two months, but it feels like longer. And it also feels like it just happened, like yesterday.

I stared at him. Did he really just say that? Did he remember? The way he looked back at me, one eyebrow raised, I knew he did. And this time, I was the one to look away. Because I remembered. I remembered everything.

We all look so young. John with his rosy cheeks, Trevor with his chubby ones, Peter with his skinny legs. Underneath the picture I wrote, THE BEGINNING. "Aww," he says tenderly. "Baby Lara Jean and Baby Peter. Where'd you find this?" "In a shoe box." He flicks John's smiling face. "Punk." "Peter!" "Just kidding," he says.

Even now, all these years later, I still read them—Conrad's letters to me when I was studying abroad in Spain. Just every once in a while, I pull them all out and sit down and read each one. I know them all by heart, but they still touch me, they still make me feel it all over again.… To think that once we were both very young, and very far apart, and still finding our way back to each other.

Once upon a time I knew his face by heart. I had him memorized.

Dolab?m? bo?altmam çok zaman?m? ald?. Peter'?n yazd???, saklad???m baz? notlar? buldum ve kupür albümüme koyabilmek için dikkatlice çantama att?m. Eski bir gofret. Tozlu, siyah saç tokalar?; ki bu oldukça ironikti çünkü ihtiyac?n?z oldu?unda onlar? asla bulamazd?n?z.

It was like something out of a movie. It feels like a long time ago now.

When someone's been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slip out of your hands, and then you're just clutching air and grit. That's why you can't save it all up like that.

When someone's been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slips out of your hands, and then you're just clutching air and grit. That's why can't save them up like that.

I don't want it to be like that with Peter. The farawayness of old feelings, like even when you try with all your might, you can barely make out his face when you close your eyes. No matter what, I always want to remember his face.

At his old school, they taught him a song to remember all its phases. Sometimes he'll sing it for us at dinner, but only if we do not request it.

Maybe the reason you can never go home again is that, once you're back, you can never leave...

Mom lived in 709. Five doors down from 714, the number they stamped on Quaaludes.

The old Hollywood I knew is dead. It only exists now in still photographs and a few people's memories." — Olivia de Havilland

Corre por mi memoria atrapadas por las brumas del olvido, las largas borracheras de papá

No puedo olvidarla» se repite con un susurro apagado, sujetando la cara entre sus manos, tratando de sepultar el pasado.

Some memories remain close; you can shut your eyes and find yourself back in them. But there are second-person memories, too, distant you memories, and these are trickier: you watch yourself in disbelief.

Wes imagined that, in some other distant world, if he remembered nothing else about his father, he would remember that his hand trembled when he drank water. That, or the fact that his eyes teared up whenever he heard "Brown-Eyed Girl" on the radio.

Ravic emptied his glass. He got a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one out and lit it. His hands were not yet steady. He flung the match on the floor and ordered another calvados. That face, that smiling face which he thought he had just seen again—he must have been

Shortly after the war Valentin had come into a little money, and had been drinking it ever since. He considered it his duty to celebrate his good luck in having come out alive. It was nothing to him that that was now several years ago. One could never celebrate it enough, he used to explain. He was one of those with an uncanny memory of the war. The rest of us had forgotten many things; but he remembered every day and every hour.

And yes, that's it, that is what they think, those hundred thousand Kantoreks. Young men of iron. Young? None of us is more than twenty. But young? Young men? That was a long time ago. We are old now.

It was the loss of the books that she grieved above all. . . One keeps remembering some odd little book that one had; one can't list them all, and it is best to forget them now that they are ashes.