Quotes About Reminiscence

I love Leipzig, and I will never forget this city.

It's a place I'll always remember, and I have nothing bad to say about New England. I love that place.

I miss my family, and I miss the New Jersey beaches. They have beaches here in L.A., but they aren't the same.

I have all of my firesuits and helmets, and my parents collect all the newspaper articles and pictures and stuff like that.

I grew up in Aberdare and some of the nicest beaches close by were at Tenby and Saundersfoot.

The sands in the hourglass have fallen without mercy throughout my life, but I try to remind myself of the blessed years that we shared—especially now, when I am drowning in riptides of sorrow and loss.

and for a brief moment she felt fifteen again. Felt as she hadn't in years, as if all her dreams could still come true.

la nuova versione vibrante, in carne e ossa del passato che non lo aveva mai abbandonato. Più di una volta una versione più giovane di Amanda gli era comparsa in sogno e si chiedeva se quei sogni sarebbero cambiati in futuro. Che aspetto avrebbe avuto lei? Non lo sapeva. Sapeva solo che stare qui con lei lo faceva sentire completo, in un modo che pochi potevano capire.

I miss him like one might miss a scar, or wooden leg, something disfiguring but characteristic.

Do you ever do that thing where you lie in bed and you can't sleep so you end up writing out recent conversation you've had? So they look like a play?' Well you should. It's fun. I keep them. Look through them, sometimes.

They already knew that they would be telling people about the morning for a long time to come, maybe for the rest of their lives, and the taxi ride was the first attempt at a first draft of a story that would have to satisfy parents, siblings, children, and grandchildren.

It's just that in the old days, when you eventually got your pictures back from the drugstore, you never went backward through time. You shuffled through the twenty-four holiday snapshots, only seven of which were any good, put them in a drawer and forgot about them.

The flowers need watering the silver needs a shine. Daughter is a magnet drawn back to where she was last safe. She touches the tablecloth like a talisman. Tell me who I was. Tell me what I've become.

Every year, the memories I have of my father become more faint, unclear, and distant. once they were vivid and true, then they became like photographs, and now they are more like photographs of photographs.

Every year, the memories I have of my father become more faint, unclear, and distant. once they were vivid and true, then they became like photographs, and now they are more like photographs of photographs. But sometimes, at rare moments, a memory of him will return to me with such suddenness and clarity that all the feeling I've pushed down for years springs out like a jack-in-the-box.

My son's mother, the girl I fell in love with when I was ten, died five years ago. I expect to join her soon, at least in that. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Of that I am convinced. I thought it would be strange to live in the world without her in it. And yet. I'd gotten used to living with her memory a long time ago. Only at the very end did I see her again. I snuck into her room in the hospital and sat with her every day.

The memories were too perfect: take one detail away and they collapsed into disorder.

What I lost is, in the grand scope of things, almost... negligible. It's true that there's grief: it wakes me in a cold sweat thinking,, Who was I? What did I care about? What did I find funny sad, stupid, painful? Was I happy? All of those memories I accumulated, gone. Which one, if there could have been only one, would I have kept?

My idea of a perfect day is a frozen custard at Shake Shack and a walk in the park. (Followed by a Lactaid.) My idea of a perfect night is a good play and dinner at Orso. (But no garlic, or I won't be able to sleep.) The other day I found a bakery that bakes my favorite childhood cake, and it was everything I remembered: it made my week.

Not enough. Margo rose and tucked the towel in place. Come on, let's go stuff her in a locker. For old time's sake.

A FINE THING IT WAS TO GIVE SOMEONE THE LINGERING glow of memories.

perform." "I recall a performance

Now, obviously, all old people seem cool whenever we see black-and-white images of their younger selves. It's human nature to inject every old picture with positive abstractions. We can't help ourselves. We all do it. We want those things to be true, because we all hope future generations will have the same thoughts when they come across forgotten photographs of us.

It's funny how you never think about the women you've had. It's always the ones who get away that you can't forget.