Memories Quotes - Page 39

• Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.

  Amy Bloom

  Dark, Two, Stuck

  Amy Bloom (2007). “Away: A Novel”, p.44, Random House

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• But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down.

  F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Struggle, Ambition, Air

  "The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald".

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• Most artists are brought to their vocation when their own nascent gifts are awakened by the work of a master. That is to say, most artists are converted to art by art itself. Finding one's voice isn't just an emptying and purifying oneself of the words of others but an adopting and embracing of filiations, communities, and discourses. Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void but out of chaos. Any artist knows these truths, no matter how deeply he or she submerges that knowing.

  Lewis Hyde

  Art, Inspiration, Voice

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• Memory is identity....You are what you have done; what you have done is in your memory; what you remember defines who you are; when you forget your life you cease to be, even before your death.

  Julian Barnes

  Identity, Done, Remember

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• I'm at a loss because I am in love with a man who is standing before me with no memories of me at all. (Time Traveler's Wife)

  Audrey Niffenegger

  Loss, Men, Wife

  Audrey Niffenegger (2014). “The Time Traveler's Wife”, p.4, Simon and Schuster

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• Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Love, Sweet, Art

  'To-: Music when soft voices die' (published 1824).

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• are memories pictures or the secret doorway?

  Lynda Barry

  Secret, Doorways

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• So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

  Markus Zusak

  Heart, Clouds, Air

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• I could still smell her on my fur. It clung to me, a memory of another world. I was drunk with it, with the scent of her. I'd got too close. The smell of summer on her skin, the half-recalled cadence of her voice, the sensation of her fingers on my fur. Every bit of me sang with the memory of her closeness. Too close. I couldn't stay away.

  Maggie Stiefvater

  Summer, Voice, Smell

  "Shiver". Book by Maggie Stiefvater, 2009.

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• And my sister, my Lindsey, left me in her memories, where I was meant to be.

  Alice Sebold

  Were Meant To Be, My Sister, Left

  Alice Sebold (2014). “The Lovely Bones: Picador Classic”, p.222, Pan Macmillan

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• The memory of my father is wrapped up in white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day of work. Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits out of his hat, he drew love from his small body.

  Yehuda Amichai

  Father, Taken, White

  Yehuda Amichai, “My Father”

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• When we die, as when the scenes have been fixed on to celluloid and the scenery is pulled down and burnt — we are phantoms in the memories of our descendants. Then we are ghosts, my dear, then we are myths. But still we are together. We are the past together, we are a distant past. Beneath the dome of the mysterious stars, I still hear your voice.

  Jostein Gaarder

  Stars, Past, Voice

  Jostein Gaarder (2010). “Maya”, p.158, Hachette UK

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• This was a memory I wanted to keep, whole, and recall again and again. When I was fifty years old I wanted to remember this moment on the porch, holding hands with Cameron while he shared himself with me. I didn’t want it to be something on the fringes of my memory like so many other things about Cameron and myself.

  Sara Zarr

  Hands, Years, Fifty

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• The young writer should learn to spot them: words that at first glance seem freighted with delicious meaning, but that soon burst in the air, leaving nothing but a memory of bright sound.

  E. B. White

  Air, Leaving, Firsts

  William Strunk Jr., E.B. White (1962). “the Elements of Style”

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• Of all the priceless objects left behind, this is what we rescue. These artifacts. Memory cues. Useless souvenirs. Nothing you could auction. The scars left from happiness.

  Chuck Palahniuk

  Useless, Auctions, Scar

  Chuck Palahniuk (2003). “Diary: A Novel”, Doubleday Books

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• It is a triumph of life that old people lose their memories of inessential things.

  Gabriel Garcia Marquez

  People, Triumph, Loses

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• I want the same one, the way she always is, without failures, without fights, without bad memories.

  Gabriel Garcia Marquez

  Fighting, Want, Way

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• I wonder if I don't give too much of myself to writing: I am always half where I am; the other half is feeding the furnace, kick-starting the heat of creativity. I am making love with someone but at the same time I'm noticing how this graceful hand across my belly might just fit in with the memory of lilacs in Albuquerque in 1974.

  Natalie Goldberg

  Writing, Creativity, Hands

  Natalie Goldberg (2011). “Thunder and Lightning: Cracking Open the Writer’s Craft”, p.41, Open Road Media

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• The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.

  Sara Gruen

  Persistent, Distressing

  Sara Gruen (2016). “The Sara Gruen Collection: Water for Elephants - At the Water's Edge - Ape House”, p.142, Hachette UK

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• We are our memories," Dodge said. "That's all we are. That's what makes us the person we are. The sum of all our memories from the day we were born. If you took a person and replaced his set of memories with another set, he'd be a different person. He'd think, act, and feel things differently.

  Brian Falkner

  Thinking, Different, Dodge

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• Sometimes grief is a comfort we grant ourselves because it's less terrifying than trying for joy. Nobody wants to admit it. We'd all declare we want to be happy, if we could. So why, then, is pain the one thing we most often hold on to? Why are slights and griefs the memories on which we choose to dwell? Is it because joy doesn't last but grief does?

  Megan Hart

  Pain, Grief, Joy

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• No place worth knowing yields itself at sight, and those the least inviting on first view may leave the most haunting pictures upon the walls of memory.

  Algernon Blackwood

  Wall, Yield, Sight

  Algernon Blackwood (2015). “Algernon Blackwood: Premium 11 Novels Collection (Jimbo, The Education of Uncle Paul, The Human Chord, The Centaur, The Promise of Air, The Garden of Survival, The Bright Messenger and more)”, p.718, e-artnow

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• It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.

  Mary E. Pearson

  Fear, Connections, Stills

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• He's at ease, his body sculpted to the music, his shoulder searching the other shoulder, his right toe knowing the left knee, the height, the depth, the form, the control, the twist of his wrist, the bend of his elbow, the tilt of his neck, notes digging into arteries, and he is in the air now, forcing the legs up beyond muscular memory, one last press of the thighs, an elongation of form, a loosening of human contour, he goes higher and is skyheld.

  Colum McCann

  Knowing, Air, Toes

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• He poured the tumbler full. Drink up, he said. The world goes on. We have dancing nightly and this night is no exception. The straight and the winding way are one and now that you are here what do the years count since last we two met together? Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.

  Cormac McCarthy

  Past, Night, Men

  Cormac McCarthy (2015). “Blood Meridian: Picador Classic”, p.348, Pan Macmillan

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