#memo

Make it simple. Make it memorable. Make it inviting to look at. Make it fun to read. ↗

— Leo Burnett

#inviting #look #make #memorable #read

We photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth can make them come back again. We cannot develop and print a memory. ↗

— Henri Cartier-Bresson

#back #cannot #come #continually #contrivance

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. ↗

— Willa Cather

#anything #better #ever #happen #memories

Our enemies are our evil deeds and their memories, our pride, our selfishness, our malice, our passions, which by conscience or by habit pursue us with a relentlessness past the power of figure to express. ↗

— George A. Smith

#deeds #evil #express #figure #habit

It's always the generals with the bloodiest records who are the first to shout what a hell it is. And it's always the war widows who lead the Memorial Day parades. ↗

— Paddy Chayefsky

#bloodiest #day #first #generals #hell

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart. ↗

— Eliza Cook

#echoes #heart #how #memory #old

My book 'Trust Your Heart', which is the story of my life, will be followed by 'Singing Lessons', a memoir of love, loss, hope, and healing, which talks about the death of my son and the hope that has been the aftermath of the healing from that tragedy. ↗

— Judy Collins

#aftermath #been #book #death #followed

I was asked to memorise what I did not understand; and, my memory being so good, it refused to be insulted in that manner. ↗

— Aleister Crowley

#being #did #good #i #insulted

A boy from Brooklyn used to cruise on summer nights. As soon as he’d hit sixty he’d hold his hand out the window, cupping it around the wind. He’d been assured this is exactly how a woman’s breast feels when you put your hand around it and apply a little pressure. Now he knew, and he loved it. Night after night, again and again, until the weather grew cold and he had to roll the window up. For many years afterwards he was perpetually attempting to soar. One winter’s night, holding his wife’s breast in his hand, he closed his eyes and wanted to weep. He loved her, but it was the wind he imagined now. As he grew older, he loved the word etcetera and refused to abbreviate it. He loved sweet white butter. He often pretended to be playing the organ. On one of his last mornings, he noticed the shape of his face molded in the pillow. He shook it out, but the next morning it reappeared. ↗

— Mary Ruefle

#life #love #memories #age

The hurricane flooded me out of a lot of memorabilia, but it can't flood out the memories. ↗

— Tom Dempsey

#flooded #hurricane #lot #me #memorabilia