Memories Quotes - Page 36

• Dates are convenient hooks on which we can hang our memories of events. But history is all about people - people like you and me who did things to change the world.

  Joan Lowery Nixon

  People, Hook, World

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• Stoning prophets and erecting churches to their memory afterwards has been the way of the world through the ages. Today we worship Christ, but the Christ in the flesh we crucified.

  Mahatma Gandhi

  Friday, Jesus, Age

  Mahatma Gandhi (1984). “Collected Works”

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• This tug-of-war often obscures what's also happening between us. I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of tribe, a run at happiness. You can't imagine how seriously I take that - even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done.

  Kelly Corrigan

  Mother, Running, War

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• Throughout his life the memory of that happy day stayed locked secretly in (his) heart.

  Brian Jacques

  Heart, Happy Day, Locked

  Brian Jacques (2004). “Martin the Warrior: A Tale from Redwall”, p.227, Penguin

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• Peace. That's what salaam means. Peace unto you." The words brought forth an echo from Ender's memory. His mother's voice reading to him softly, when he was very young. ... The kiss, the word, the peace were with him still. I am only what I remember, and Alai is my friend in a memory so intense that they can't tear him out. Like Valentine, the strongest memory of all.

  Orson Scott Card

  Mother, Reading, Valentine

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• To comfort me is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time: if one is lonely one prefers discomfort.

  Graham Greene

  Lonely, Comfort, Ifs

  Graham Greene (1951). “The End of the Affair”, London Heinemann [1951]

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• Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

  Cormac McCarthy

  Life Is

  Cormac McCarthy (2013). “The Border Trilogy”, p.421, Pan Macmillan

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• She remembered the heroines of novels she had read, and the lyrical legion of those adulterous women began to sing in her memory with sisterly voices that enchanted her. Now she saw herself as one of those amoureuses whom she had so envied: she was becoming, in reality, one of that gallery of fictional figures; the long dream of her youth was coming true.

  Gustave Flaubert

  Dream, Reality, Voice

  Gustave Flaubert (1993). “Madame Bovary: Patterns of Provincial Life”, Everyman's Library

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• She sleepwalked from moment to moment, and whole months slipped by without memory, without bearing the faintest imprint of her conscious will.

  Ian Mcewan

  Months, Moments, Conscious

  Ian McEwan (2010). “The Comfort Of Strangers”, p.13, Random House

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• What are we after all our dreams, after all our memories?

  Nicholas Sparks

  Notebook, Dream, Notebook Love

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• I wouldn't mind the early autumn if you came home today I'd tell you how much I miss you and know I'd be okay. It's funny how we never know exactly how our life will go It's funny how a dream can fade with the break of day. Time can't erase the memory and time can't bring you home Last Summer was a part of me and now a part is gone. —Margaret

  Jacqueline Woodson

  Summer, Dream, Home

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• These are things you should learn. Your past is a skeleton walking one step behind you; your future is a skeleton walking one step in front of you. Maybe you don’t wear a watch, but your skeletons do, and they always know what time it is. Now, these skeletons are made of memories, dreams, and voices. And they can trap you in the in-between, between touching and becoming. But they’re not necessarily evil, unless you let them be.

  Sherman Alexie

  Dream, Past, Skeletons

  FaceBook post by Sherman Alexie from Jan 18, 2017

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• As I travel through life, I gather experiences that lie imprinted on the deepest strata of memory, and there they ferment, are transformed, and sometimes rise to the surface and sprout like strange plants from other worlds. What is the fertile humus of the subconscious composed of? Why are certain images converted into recurrent themes in nightmares or writing?

  Isabel Allende

  Lying, Writing, Other Worlds

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• America was different. America was a river, roarng along, unmindful of the past. I could wade into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins.

  Khaled Hosseini

  Past, Rivers, America

  Marilyn Herbert, Khaled Hosseini (2006). “Book Club in a Box Presents the Discussion Companion for Khaled Hosseini's Novel The Kite Runner”, p.51, Bookclub-in-a-Box

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• That's just pain she said. It goes eventually. And when it's gone, there's no lasting memory. Not the worst of it anyway. It fades. Our minds aren't made to hold on to the particulars of pain the way we do bliss. It's a gift God gives us, a sign of His care for us.

  Charles Frazier

  Pain, Giving, Mind

  Charles Frazier (2007). “Cold Mountain: A Novel”, p.277, Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

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• If we knew a person was going to die, we'd hold harder to the memories." Fire corrected him, in a whisper. "The good memories.

  Kristin Cashore

  Fire, Harder, Persons

  Kristin Cashore (2009). “Fire”, p.103, Penguin

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• And now listen carefully. You in others-this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life-your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it matter to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you-the you that enters the future and becomes a part of it.

  Boris Pasternak

  Soul, Matter, Doe

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• Who was I, really? I was the sole occupant of my mother's totalitarian state, my own personal history rewritten to fit the story she was telling that day. There were so many missing pieces. I was starting to find some of them, working my way upriver, collecting a secret cache of broken memories in a shoebox.

  Janet Fitch

  Mother, Broken, Missing

  Janet Fitch (2013). “White Oleander”, p.246, Hachette UK

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• Fiction cannot recite the numbing numbers, but it can be that witness, that memory. A storyteller can attempt to tell the human tale, can make a galaxy out of the chaos, can point to the fact that some people survived even as most people died. And can remind us that the swallows still sing around the smokestacks.

  Jane Yolen

  Numbers, People, Holocaust

  Jane Yolen (1990). “The Devil's Arithmetic”, p.100, Penguin

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• The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions.

  Oscar Wilde

  Flower, Passion, Thinking

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• (B)ut who can start over when memories never leave you? —Ruth Mendenberg

  Carol Matas

  Starting Over, Ruth

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• There have been times when only a hair's-breadth has intervened betwixt myself and the seething devil-ridden world of madness; for the hideous knowledge, the horror- blackened memories which I have carried so long, were never meant to be borne by the human intellect.

  Clark Ashton Smith

  Hair, Long, Devil

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• Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common.

  Jane Austen

  Perfect, Common, Perfect Happiness

  Jane Austen (1841). “Emma: A Novel”, p.205

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• Rin slept inside the oak’s thought. Its own memories of weather and growth continued to hum, and like a pond, its stillness reflected back herself.

  Shannon Hale

  Weather, Growth, Ponds

  Shannon Hale (2010). “Forest Born”, p.110, A&C Black

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• And that was it; it was so easy for her. My own memories did not even belong to me. But I knew she was wrong. I had seen that comet. I knew it as well as I knew my own face, my own hands. My own heart.

  Sarah Dessen

  Heart, Hands, Faces

  Sarah Dessen (2004). “Someone Like You”, p.133, Penguin

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