Memories Quotes - Page 113

Memory is the residue of thought

Some memories come with a very compelling sense of truth about them. And that happens to be the case even with memories that are not true.

My main memories of my father are of his illness.

Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.

My mother worked on a whole bunch of those; she worked on What's My Line?, I've Got A Secret, Play Your Hunch... In my memory, she worked on To Tell The Truth. So it was her job to brief the imposters.

I know a lot about when I was a little girl, because my sister used to keep a diary. Today I keep her diary in a drawer next to by bed. I like to see how her memories were the same as mine, but also different.

Whether I caught fish or not, just the thrill of rolling out that line and watching my fly turn over has been good enough for me. That and the hundreds of treasured memories I have of this wonderful sport.

Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

It is precisely the sort of thing I am always trying to do in my writing -- to present my unhappy reader with a wide-ranged chaos -- of actions and reactions, thoughts, memories and feelings -- in the vain hope that at the end he will see that the whole thing represents only one moment, one feeling, one person. A raging, trumpeting jungle of associations, and then I announce at the end of it, with a gesture of despair, "This is I!

Memories were like sunshine. They warmed you up and left a pleasant glow, but you couldn't hold them.

Of the women in my childhood, I retain above all the memory of their perfumes, perfumes that lingered - filling the lift with fragrance long after they had gone.

Contemporaries appreciate the person rather than their merit, posterity will regard the merit rather than the person.

How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.

There was a train that would come by our house every night, and I'd hear the whistle blow. That is the sweetest memory I have.

Few things are more deceptive than memories.

Memories are worse than bullets.

The Cosmos is all that is or was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us -- there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries.

I am astonished, disappointed, pleased with myself. I am distressed, depressed, rapturous. I am all these things at once and cannot add up the sum.

Nature has no use for the plea that one 'did not know'.

What we do not make conscious emerges later as fate.

I want to question the images that are in our memory. There is always a double level in my work; what you see is true and at the same time not true.

There's a brief moment when you first wake up, where you have no memories. A blissful blank slate, a happy emptiness.

Life is simply a collection of memories, but memories are like star light... They live on Forever.

I draw on my memories but blended with a lot of fantasy.

The Land of Dreams, that mystical realm, where the oddest of visions appear, come wander through scenes of joyful peace, or stampeded through nightmares of fear. Dare we open those secret doors, down dusty paths of mind, in long-forgotten corners, what memories we'll find. Who rules o'er the Kingdom of Night, where all is not what it seems? 'Tis I, the Weaver of Tales, for I am the Dreamer of Dreams!