Quotes About Reminiscence

I took his razor from the shower floor, bits of his black hair still caked between the blades. I took his toothbrush from the sink counter and sucked on the bristles, trying to find the taste of him, but there was only the flavor of watery mint toothpaste....I pulled the sheets off the bed with the idea that I could gather up the imprint of him and save it. I thought, I can unfurl the sheets on our old bed at home. I can lie in the creases formed by his body. I can sleep with him again.

Sometimes at night, when I was alone, or when I was at the pool, in the quiet stillness underwater, my mind would go to that place. To the hospital, to the people there. It was as if my heart could travel, over the miles, over the months that had passed, and I was back with her. Olivia

When Flora was a young girl she used to try to "fix" moments in her memory. The notion that years of her life would pass and she would only remember snippets, seconds of the whole, distressed her. She came up with a plan and at various times-walking home from school or out with friends or just sitting at her desk she would think: This. Remember this.

Mr. Pickwick, she thought, and Weller—yes, Sam Weller, that was his name—and the long lanky Mr. Winkle who fought in the duel. It's all exactly like that, she thought (trying to catch the aroma of the book, the bird's-eye view which we reproduce when we try to remember something read long ago and build up from an incident or a character in the story). It's all exactly like the background of Pickwick Papers.

But Father took no notice. Perhaps he had never played tip-and-run when he was a boy. As a matter of fact I could not imagine Father as a boy. I could not believe he had ever been young and small with dirty hands and untidy hair—it was incredible.

I'm not sure why that story came back to me while I sat huddled in Sydney's car on the way to the lake. It happened so long ago. I guess maybe it was because it gave me the assurance that when things got bad, there were certain people you could always count on.

I've only seen a handful of short clips of my U.S. Open win. I remember how I did it; I don't need to watch a video.

I can be 60 years old, but I can always go back and play like I once did by just playing a video game. It's really great.

My first encounter with video games was pretty conventional. I was travelling with my parents - we used to take long cross country trips in the United States every summer - and we went into a restaurant where there happened to be a Pong machine, and I was... a lot of quarters went into that Pong machine, let's just say.

When I was a child, there really weren't very many video games, but I do have memories of 'Pong.' Maybe it was 'Pong.' It was a home system in Japan, so maybe it wasn't the real 'Pong.' It was just sort of a Japanese game that was similar to 'Pong.'

Each holiday season, as family members arrive and couches are unfolded, my household settles into a palpable nostalgia. Poorly designed photo albums are pulled from the shelves. Home videos of prepubescent siblings in matching pajamas dance across the television screen.

Generally, I'm attracted to videos that hit me some way nostalgically.

There are some who believe that perfume is magic. The fragrance of a thing is its purest essence. And certain scents can awaken phantoms of past love, of sweetest reminiscence." "Phantoms?" Daisy repeated, intrigued, and the other girl replied impatiently. "He doesn't mean it literally, dear. Perfume can't summon a ghost. And it's not really magic. It's only a mixture of scent particles that travel to the olfactory receptors in your nose.

Family members are often just frustrated that, no matter how hard they try to provide companionship, take care of chores, and so forth, they can't replace the person who's gone," Amanda-Lee said sympathetically. "When the grieving spouse talks about that person, the children and grandchildren take it as a complaint or a signal that they're not doing a good enough job. The reality is that the grieving spouse just needs someone to talk to, someone to reminisce with.

Time passes... but memories do not.

By taking me back, Arney brought me forward. I told her that in my reply.

I tried to make sense of what she'd said. "A Sears house. . . . You know, I think this was a Sears Catalog house. I'd forgotten all about that, but I recall Aunt Ruth talking about Poppy ordering the house, and a railcar delivering it in pieces." "Yes!" Hanna Beth smiled. "I remem

Memory is sweet. Even when it's painful, memory is sweet.

He'd forget all that, just as he would forget this night. The memories would linger for a time, but they'd grow dull. The ache he felt now, the frustation and anger and sorrow - all those would fade too. She'd given him a night to remember, but of course he'd forget.

Do you remember little Zoe Octavia Lexham?' he said. His aunt cast her pale blue gaze in the direction of the great chandelier, as though that was where she kept her memory. 'Zoe Octavia,' she said.

The Black Hole?" Grey asked, incredulously. "Nobody quotes The Black Hole, Dresden. Nobody even remembers that one." "Hogwash. Ernest Borgnine, Anthony Perkins, and Roddy McDowall all in the same movie? Immortality.

All I said was, "I miss you.

There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theatres to recall the sensation of rain.

What would I give to be able to discuss anything at all with John? What would I give to be able to say one small thing that made him happy? What would that small thing be? If I had said it in time would it have worked?