Memories Quotes - Page 228

And then there is our personal history. Memories only we share. Things not another living soul would understand.

I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives!

The Time It Never Rained was inspired by actual events, when the longest and most severe drought in living memory pressed ranchers and farmers to the outer limits of courage and endurance.

Short term memory makes no difference if you've lost your mind.

[Memory] visits when it is hungry, not when you are.

In Australia and New Zealand, and New Zealand especially, I always find everyone is so nice and friendly. It's one of the few places that I remember visually, like I remember where I stayed and my surroundings - and that's a good sign, because I've got a terrible memory. I'm looking forward to it!

My body Healed quickly. But the wound to my psyche was deep. Wide. First aid, too little, too late, left me hemorrhaging inside, the blood unstaunched by psychological bandage or love's healing magic. Eventually it scabbed over, a thick, ugly welt of memory. I work to conceal it, but no matter how hard I try, once in a while something makes me pick at it until the scarring bleeds. In my arms, Ashante cries, innocence ripped apart by circumstance. Bloodied by inhuman will. Time will prove a tourniquet. But she will always be at risk of infection. (124)

My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.

Too much to take in, too much to purge. Why must every memory, once sweet, dead end in such ugliness?

It is, I suppose, the business of grandparents to create memories and the relative of memories: traditions. We want to lodge moments, like snapshots, in the fleeting video of time.

Of one thing alone I am very sure: it is a law of our nature that the memory of longing should survive the more fugitive memory of fulfillment.

She must face her grief where the struggle is always hardest-in the place where each trivial object is attended by pleasant memories.

No matter how many vitamins you take, how much Pilates, you'll lose your keys, your hair and your memory.

Then I turned to him commanding That he go the way he came, whence he came. But he answered me in sorrow, "May the Past not seek to borrow From the Present without blame - Just one memory from its store, Ere it goes to come no more, Back the pathway that it came, whence it came?"

I review all I know, but can synthesize no meaning. When I doze, the Fact, the certain accomplished calamity, wakes me roughly like a brutal nurse. I see it crouching inflexibly in a corner of the ceiling. It comes down in geometrical diagonal like lightning.It says, I remain, I AM, I shall never cease to be: your memory will grow a deathly glaze: you will forget, you will fade out, but I cannot be undone.Thus every quarter hour it puts the taste of death in my mouth, and shows me, but not gently, how I go whoring after oblivion.

Whatever happened to me just now has gotten to me, broken past the fragile shell I've built. More than my memory is gone. My soul has wings that beat to a heart I don't understand and I see things, feel things that I know aren't from here, but that are so real.

It could be enough, maybe, or at least a start, but the problem is that at night I tumble into dreams that aren't dreams at all. I tumble into memories and wake up aching for a dying world and a quiet, cold life that offered me nothing but sitting in a still room.

I hope this is the lesson we women really commit to memory - we learned that it doesn't work to try be someone other than who you really are.

They had created themselves together, and they always saw themselves, their youth, their love, their lost youth and lost love, their failures and memories, as a sort of living fiction.

Its just the anniversary, she wanted to tell him. Its just this time of the year stirring up these memories. Everything will be all right. But she couldn't say that, because she wasn't sure it was true.

Given the ease with which health infuses life with meaning and purpose, it is shocking how swiftly illness steals away those certainties... Time unused and only endured still vanishes, as if time itself is starving, and each day is swallowed whole, leaving no crumbs, no memory, no trace at all.

Memories are the only real gifts we can leave our children.

I look for mystery and try to decipher it while knowing it is an impossible task. I look for memory, where Mystery lies.

The act of writing is for me often nothing more than the secret or conscious desire to carve words on a tombstone: to the memory of a town forever vanished, to the memory of a childhood in exile, to the memory of all those I loved and who, before I could tell them I loved them, went away.

Memory is the keyword which combines past with present, past and future.