#memories

Our lives are the sum of our memories. How much are we willing to lose from our already short lives by … not paying attention? ↗

— Joshua Foer

#lose #memories #pay-attention #art

San Francisco is gone. Nothing remains of it but memories. ↗

— Jack London

#gone #memories #nothing #remains #san

In the life of a singer, it's not all triumphs and happy memories; there are days you have to go out there when it's the last thing you feel like doing. ↗

— Mireille Mathieu

#doing #feel #go #happy #last

Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic. As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. ↗

— Diane Setterfield

#memories #old-age #reading #age

My memories are of my dad taking me to football on Saturday mornings, and my mum taking me swimming. Those are the things I remember from my childhood, not sitting around the table debating capitalism and the profit squeeze. ↗

— David Miliband

#capitalism #childhood #dad #debating #football

To reminisce with my old friends, a chance to share some memories, and play our songs again. ↗

— Ricky Nelson

#chance #friends #memories #old #old friends

He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the Snow Queen was mistily white in the moonshine; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. ↗

— L.M. Montgomery

#dreamy #loss #memories #touching #tranquility

People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die. ↗

— Haruki Murakami

#memories #death

Will. For a moment her heart hesitated. She remembered when Will had died, her agony, the long nights alone, reaching across the bed every morning when she woke up, for years expecting to find him there, and only slowly growing accustomed to the fact that side of the bed would always be empty. The moments when she had found something funny and turned to share the joke with him, only to be shocked anew that he was not there. The worst moments, when, sitting alone at breakfast, she had realized that she had forgotten the precise blue of his eyes or the depth of his laugh; that, like the sound of Jem's violin music, they had faded into the distance where memories are silent. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#loneliness #loss #love #memories #tessa-gray

It is...difficult to describe someone, since memories are by their nature fragmented, isolated, and arbitrary as glimpses one has at night through lighted windows. [E]very memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long. ↗

— Marilynne Robinson

#dreams