Quotes About Reminiscence

Heirlooms we don't have in our family. But stories we've got.

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not.

Alone, Roarke took the gray fabric button from his pocket, the one he'd found on the floor of his limo. The one that had fallen from the jacket of that drab gray suit she'd worn the first time he'd seen her. Studying it, knowing he had no intention of giving it back to her, he felt like a fool.

Alone, Roarke took the gray fabric button from his pocket, the one he'd found on the floor of his limo. The one that had fallen from the jacket of that drab gray suit she'd worn the first time he'd seen her.

His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they'd been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting. It wasn't the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs. "God, I miss you," he said in a voice that cracked. "Every night. Every day…

Memories were especially dear, when they were all you had left of a loved one to hold on to.

It seems to me that it's usually impossible to get hold of another time. You look at a pair of high-button shoes, the leather dry and cracked, buttons missing, the cloth uppers nearly drained of color by the years, and it just isn't possible to get into the mind of some long-gone woman who once saw them new. How could they ever have been new and shining, something a woman might actually covet?

When I look back on the townscapes now, they do seem to me to recall certain images of the destruction of Dresden during the war.

Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

We possess nothing certainly except the past

That's the way with sentimental things: it's the memory the junk conjures that's valuable, not the junk itself.

Do you have such periods too? Periods you wish you could go back to, because you let them pass, because you wasted them, not realizing how precious they were? Periods you threw away like—how does the line go—like pearls before swine? Periods that, if only you could turn the wheel of time back to them, you would knit and embroider forever into your being, never letting them go?

My memories of them had rubbed thin with overuse, worn to frail color transparencies flickering on the walls of my mind: Jamie scrambling intent and surefooted up to a high branch, Peter's laugh arcing out of the trompe-l'oeil dazzle of green ahead. Through some slow sea change they had become children out of a haunting storybook, bright myths from a lost civilization; it was hard to believe they had once been real and my friends.

am not good at noticing when I'm happy, except in retrospect. My gift, or fatal flaw, is for nostalgia. I have sometimes been accused of demanding perfection, of rejecting heart's desires as soon as I get close enough that the mysterious impressionistic gloss disperses into plain solid dots, but the truth is less simplistic than that. I know very well that perfection is made up of frayed, off-struck mundanities.

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.

I can't say whiskey made her beautiful. Davina wasn't a PYT any more than I was a young executive. But I used to be, and she used to be; something of it was left in us both, I think. Davina was everything I ever missed, transformed into warm brown flesh.

I would never rule out returning to Spain. I have good memories, and I would like to go back at some point.

Since childhood, Claridge's has always been a very special place for me. I associate it with celebrations, happy times.

That Cornell show that - that people talk about, I can't remember that specifically. It didn't stand out for me on that tour. The whole tour was like that for me.

I have died in so many spectacular ways, and I remember shooting them all, too. I imagine all those deaths will flash in front of me when I'm on my death bed, faced with the real thing.

Sometimes you watch one of your favorite shows from 20 years ago and you think, 'I'm loving this, but golly, it's going at the speed of a snail.'

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?

I was really into the first 'Spider-Man' films with Tobey Maguire, so it's pretty cool how it all came full circle.

The books I read are the ones I knew and loved when I was a young man and to which I return as you do to old friends.