Our relationship could now thrive only in my head, and to discuss it with a mother intent—admittedly in my own best interest—on challenging it with reality might do it irreparable harm.
People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die.
(pl. ) of Memory
People leave traces of themselves where they feel most comfortable, most worthwhile.
Photos’re better than nothing, but things’re better than photos ’cause the things themselves were part of what was there.
Quien de verdad quiera conservar en la memoria lo sucedido, no debe entregarse a los recuerdos. El recuerdo humano es un proceso demasiado agradable como para retener el pasado; es lo contrario de lo...
She knew enough to recognize that memories were crowding in, and there was nothing he could do. They wouldn’t let him speak. She would never know what scenes were driving that turmoil.
She ordered a martini and encouraged me to, but said she couldn't drink it with her medication. She just liked seeing it in front of her, like the old days, all set to do its little magic.
She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are.
She would never truly be her own woman if she allowed fear and old memories to dictate where she would or would not go.
Sitting on the floor, I'd replay the past in my head. Funny, that's all I did, day after day after day for half a year, and I never tired of it. What I'd been through seemed so vast, with so many face...
Sjećaj me se s ružom - rekao joj je.
Sometimes I would see them not as mementos of the blissful hours but as the tangible precious debris of the storm raging in my soul.
Sometimes, the things that are the most real only happen in one's imagination, Oscar, she said. We only remember what never really happened.
Songs and smells will bring you back to a moment in time more than anything else. It's amazing how much can be conjured with a few notes of a song or a solitary whiff of a room.
Souls and memories can do strange things during trance.
Staring out to sea, I finally forced myself to stop thinking of her as someone still somewhere, if only in memory, still obscurely alive, breathing, doing, moving, but as a shovelful of ashes already...
Tell the story, gather the events, repeat them. Pattern is a matter of upkeep. Otherwise the weave relaxes back to threads picked up by birds to make their nests. Repeat, or the story will fall and al...
The Old Days, the Lost Days -- in the half-closed eyes of memory (and in fact) they never marched across a calendar; they huddled round a burning log, leaned on a certain table, or listened to those c...
The dead live in our memories.
The death of a parent, he wrote, 'despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may cut free memories and feelings that we...
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