Memories Quotes - Page 33

• Never while anything is left of me shall this... camp be forgotten. It has fairly grown into me, not merely as memory pictures, but as part and parcel of mind and body alike.

  John Muir

  Mind, Body, Forgotten

  John Muir (2011). “My First Summer in the Sierra: Illustrated Edition”, p.53, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

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• Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! There are a hundred places where I fear To go,--so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

  Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Pain, Rain, Heart

  Edna St. Vincent Millay (2014). “Millay: Poems”, p.56, Everyman's Library

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• The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts.

  Haruki Murakami

  Heart, Gleam, Moments

  Haruki Murakami (1994). “The Elephant Vanishes”, Vintage

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• Everyone had some defect, or body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a sick house and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body, warped in mind, some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor of will, or craving for liquor. At that moment he felt a holy compassion for them all. …The words of the dying God crossed his memory: Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

  W. Somerset Maugham

  Heart, Compassion, Long

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• Memory says, 'I did that.' Pride replies, 'I could not have done that.' Eventually, memory yields.

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  Pride, Yield, Done

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• The visible world is a daily miracle for those who have eyes and ears; and I still warm hands thankfully at the old fire, though every year it is fed with the dry wood of more old memories.

  Edith Wharton

  Eye, Fire, Hands

  Edith Wharton (1990). “Novellas and Other Writings”, Library of America

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• Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

  William Shakespeare

  Hair, Cities, Upbraid

  William Shakespeare (2014). “Arden Shakespeare Complete Works”, p.1172, Bloomsbury Publishing

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• Poets often describe love as an emotion that we can't control, one that overwhelms logic and common sense. That's what it was like for me. I didn't plan on falling in love with you, and I doubt if you planned on falling in love with me. But once we met, it was clear that neither of us could control what was happening to us. We fell in love, despite our differences, and once we did, something rare and beautiful was created. For me, love like that has happened only once, and that's why every minute we spent together has been seared in my memory. I'll never forget a single moment of it.

  Nicholas Sparks

  Love, Beautiful, Fall

  "The Notebook". Book by Nicholas Sparks, October 1, 1996.

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• Memory has a heavy backspin, yet it’s still impossible to land exactly where we took off.

  Colum McCann

  Land, Impossible, Heavy

  Colum McCann (2008). “Zoli: A Novel”, p.66, Random House

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• And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

  Emily Bronte

  Pain, Drinking, Indulge In

  Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, Anne Bronte (2014). “Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell”, p.100, The Floating Press

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• Love is anticipation and memory, uncertainty and longing. It’s unreasonable, of course. Nothing begins with so much excitement and hope and pleasure as love, except maybe writing a story. And nothing fails as often, except writing stories. And like a story, love must be troubled to be interesting.

  John Dufresne

  Writing, Love Is, Interesting

  John Dufresne (2008). “Love Warps the Mind a Little: A Novel”, p.140, W. W. Norton & Company

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• And then I feel as if I'm witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face towards the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she's unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I'm here. But instead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we're together again.

  Nicholas Sparks

  Moon, Sight, Together Again

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• Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey towards it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us. ...Hope sweetens the memory of experiences well loved. It tempers our troubles to our growth and our strength. It befriends us in the dark hours, excites us in bright ones. It lends promise to the future and purpose to the past. It turns discouragement to determination. Samuel Smiles

  Samuel Smiles

  Determination, Dark, Past

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• Death's power is limited -- It cannot eradicate memories Or slay love It cannot destroy even a threadbare faith Or permanently hobble the smallest hope in God It cannot permeate the soul And it cannot cripple the spirit It merely separates us for a while That is the only power death can claim --No more

  Donna VanLiere

  Soul, Spirit, Claims

  Donna VanLiere (2008). “The Christmas Shoes”, p.121, Macmillan

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• Remembering our past, carrying it around with us always, may be the necessary requirement for maintaining, as they say, the wholeness of the self. To ensure that the self doesn’t shrink, to see that it holds on to its volume, memories have to be watered like potted flowers, and the watering calls for regular contact with the witnesses of the past, that is to say, with friends. They are our mirror; our memory; we ask nothing of them but that they polish the mirror from time to time so we can look at ourselves in it.

  Milan Kundera

  Flower, Past, Mirrors

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• Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily.

  Bernhard Schlink

  Sometimes, Stay True

  Bernhard Schlink (2001). “The Reader”, p.37, Vintage

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• We'll leave now, so that this moment will remain a perfect memory...let it be our song and think of me every time you hear it.

  Betty Smith

  Song, Thinking, Perfect

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• Every person passing through this life will unknowingly leave something and take something away. Most of this “something” cannot be seen or heard or numbered or scientifically detected or counted. It’s what we leave in the minds of other people and what they leave in ours. Memory. The census doesn’t count it. Nothing counts without it.

  Robert Fulghum

  People, Mind, Passing

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• The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

  Roberto Bolano

  Pain, Void, Emptiness

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• Don't talk to me." "Why not?" "Because I want to fix that in my memory for ever. Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret.

  J. K. Rowling

  Humor, Ferrets, Why Not

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• But pain may be a gift to us. Remember, after all, that pain is one of the ways we register in memory the things that vanish, that are taken away. We fix them in our minds forever by yearning, by pain, by crying out. Pain, the pain that seems unbearable at the time, is memory's first imprinting step, the cornerstone of the temple we erect inside us in memory of the dead. Pain is part of memory, and memory is a God-given gift.

  Sue Miller

  Pain, Taken, Forever

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• Time's passage through the memory is like molten glass that can be opaque or crystalize at any given moment at will: a thousand days are melted into one conversation, one glance, one hurt, and one hurt can be shattered and sprinkled over a thousand days. It is silent and elusive, refusing to be damned and dripped out day by day; it swirls through the mind while an entire lifetime can ride like foam on the deceptive, transparent waves and get sprayed onto the conciousness at ragged, unexpected intervals.

  Gloria Naylor

  Hurt, Glasses, Mind

  Gloria Naylor (2005). “The Women of Brewster Place”, p.35, Penguin

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• Inasmuch as art preserves, with the promise of happiness, the memory of the goal that failed, it can enter, as a 'regulative idea,' the desperate struggle for changing the world. Against all fetishism of the productive forces, against the continued enslavement of individuals by the objective conditions (which remain those of domination), art represents the ultimate goal of all revolutions: the freedom and happiness of the individual.

  Herbert Marcuse

  Art, Struggle, Ideas

  Herbert Marcuse (1978). “The aesthetic dimension: toward a critique of Marxist aesthetics”, Beacon Pr

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• (memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.

  Julio Cortazar

  Echoes, Expectations, Acoustics

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• Memory weaves and traps us at the same time according to a scheme in which we do not participate: we should never speak of our memory, for it is anything but ours; it works on its own terms, it assists us while deceiving us or perhaps deceives up to assist us.

  Julio Cortazar

  Speak, Deceiving, Traps

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