Quotes about memories
memories writing past
Sit and quiet yourself. Luxuriate in a certain memory and the details will come. Let the images flow. You'll be amazed at what will come out on paper. I'm still learning what it is about the past that I want to write. I don't worry about it. It will emerge. It will insist on being told. Frank McCourt
memories thinking islands
I think that’s a mercy of this island, actually, that it won’t give us our terrible memories for long, but let us keep the good ones for as long as we want them. Maggie Stiefvater
memories glasses snow
I was suddenly struck by how dissimilar we were. It occurred to me that if Grace and I were objects, she would be an elaborate digital clock, synced up with the World Clock in London with technical perfection, and I’d be a snow globe – shaken memories in a glass ball. Maggie Stiefvater
memories singing scent
the intermittent breeze carried her scent to me again and again , singing in another language of memories from another form . Maggie Stiefvater
memories kissing thrill
When he kissed me, his lips soft and careful, it was all the thrill of our first kiss and all the practiced familiarity of the accumulated memory of all our kisses. Maggie Stiefvater
memories bye grace
I won't let this be my good-bye. I've folded one thousand paper crane memories of me and Grace, and I've made my wish. I will find a cure. And then I will find Grace. Maggie Stiefvater
memories bags scar
As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories. Maggie Stiefvater
memories past done
It was mint and memories and the past and the future and she felt as if she’d done this before and already she longed to do it again. Maggie Stiefvater
memories ties scent
Scent is the strongest tie to memory. Maggie Stiefvater
memories past grace
in Italy, almost at every step, history and poetry add to the graces of nature, sweeten the memory of the past, and seem to preserve it in eternal youth. Madame de Stael
memories book reading
A man is like a two-story house. The first floor is equipped with an entrance and a living room. On the second floor is every family member's room. They enjoy listening to music and reading books. On the first underground floor is the ruin of people's memories. The room filled with darkness is the second underground floor. Haruki Murakami
memories fiction
Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory. Haruki Murakami
memories crazy useless-stuff
Memory is so crazy! It's like we've got these drawers crammed with tons of useless stuff. Meanwhile, all the really important things we just keep forgetting, one after the other. Haruki Murakami
memories war father
My father belongs to the generation that fought the war in the 1940s. When I was a kid my father told me stories - not so many, but it meant a lot to me. I wanted to know what happened then, to my father's generation. It's a kind of inheritance, the memory of it. Haruki Murakami
memories writing thinking
I think history is collective memories. In writing, I'm using my own memory, and I'm using my collective memory. Haruki Murakami
memories book writing
I think memory is the most important asset of human beings. It's a kind of fuel; it burns and it warms you. My memory is like a chest: There are so many drawers in that chest, and when I want to be a fifteen-year-old boy, I open up a certain drawer and I find the scenery I saw when I was a boy in Kobe. I can smell the air, and I can touch the ground, and I can see the green of the trees. That's why I want to write a book. Haruki Murakami
memories gone may
I would never see her again, except in memory. She was here, and now she's gone. There is no middle ground. Probably is a word that you may find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun. Haruki Murakami
memories heart gleam
The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Haruki Murakami
memories dark sorrow
What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?...the thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. Haruki Murakami
memories taken self
Our memory is made up of our individual memories and our collective memories. The two are intimately linked. And history is our collective memory. If our collective memory is taken from us - is rewritten - we lose the ability to sustain our true selves. Haruki Murakami
memories philosophy dirty
You know what I think?" she says. "That people's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn't matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They're all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of ten-thousand-yen bills: when you feed 'em to the fire, they're all just paper. Haruki Murakami
memories past devouring
The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory. Haruki Murakami
memories weather leaving
Precipitate as weather, she appeared from somewhere, then evaporated, leaving only memory. Haruki Murakami
memories people age
Memories and thoughts age, just as people do. But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade. Haruki Murakami
memories people littles
People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die. Haruki Murakami
memories battle world
That's what the world is , after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories. Haruki Murakami
memories new-day people
Here, too, a brand-new day is beginning. It could be a day like all the others, or it could be a day remarkable enough in many ways to remain in the memory. In either case, for now, for most people, it is a blank sheet of paper. Haruki Murakami
memories colorless erase
You can hide memories, but you can’t erase the history that produced them Haruki Murakami
memories body may
Now and then may not be enough…You have to enjoy it while you’re still young. enjoy it to the fullest. You can use the memories of what you did to warm your body after you get old and can’t do it anymore. Haruki Murakami
memories heart light
We fell silent again. The thing we had shared was nothing more than a fragment of time that had died longe ago.Even so, a faint glimmer of that warm memory still claimed a part of my heart. And when death claim me, no doubt I would walk along by that faint light in the brief instant before being flung once again into the abyss of nothingness Haruki Murakami
memories writing home
Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemd a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore... Warm with life, hopeless unstable. Haruki Murakami
memories flower heart
Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library. Haruki Murakami
memories war struggle
Most things are forgotten over time. Even the war itself, the life-and-death struggle people went through is now like something from the distant past. We’re so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about everyday, too many new things we have to learn. But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone. Haruki Murakami