Memories Quotes - Page 198

Every man must be a part of a progressive revolution at least once in his lifetime! This will leave him great honour and great memories for the future.

If you think the memories of the past too much, you will miss creating the new ones!

Every single moment of reality instantly turns into memories; reality can not be caught; we can only catch memories.

Moments fly, memories remain; and then memories fly, only memoirs remain and finally memoirs disappear, nothing remains!

On the bed, Eugenides stirred restlessly. "Upset at the sight of blood?" he said. "Not my wife, Ornon." "Your blood," the ambassador pointed out. Eugenides glanced at the hook on his arm and conceded the point. "Yes," he said. He seemed lost in memory. The room was quiet.

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?

It's just that the times I'm wrong don't register in your memory with as much clarity as the times I'm right.

We're in essence allowing our spirit to come to terms with all the conflicts that we build within ourselves. Disease is after all a conflict within the tissue itself. Memory fading within the tissue, conflict of our actions or thoughts, our lives are not seamlessly running together in some way for ourselves, and had not been for a long time before we get to the critical point of a disease.

I'm a writer and writers either have good memories or nothing at all.

I answer the heroic question, 'Death, where is thy sting?' with 'It is in my heart and mind and memories.

We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

Of these years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have advanced and only grown older.

I have a lot of special memories with my parents but my toughest one is, I had, as a teenager, a pretty insatiable appetite for beer. The first time I got drunk my father found me throwing up in the bathroom. I was 15, maybe 16, and the disappointment in his voice, I can hear it to this day, and the sorrow that that brought to him. He just felt like a failure as a father, and Id give anything to take that day back because that was so hard on him. In time, my life got better, and his did too, but that was really memorable, one of those memories Id like to forget.

Zombies have no memories of their former life. You wont see the undead trying to wash windows or do your taxes. All they know how to do is swarm and feed.

For a young man, sleep is a sure solvent of distress. There whirls not for him in the night any so hideous phantasmagoria as will not become, in the clarity of the next morning, a spruce procession for him to lead. Brief the vague horror of his awakening; memory sweeps back to him, and he sees nothing dreadful after all. "Why not?" is the sun's bright message to him, and "Why not indeed?" his answer.

A good memory is one of the most precious assets of spiritual living.

... appeals to memory were never perfectly answered.

Memory is the greatest of artists, and effaces from your mind what is unnecessary.

And yet, even as she spoke, she knew that she did not wish to come back. not to stay, not to live. She loved the little yellow cottage more than she loved any place on earth. but she was through with it except in her memories.

I have very fond memories of the 80s; they were very formative years for me. I certainly remember the Cold War. It was a closer doorstep for the Brits than the Americans, so it was a very real and palpable threat at the time.

Being an actor, when you sign onto a project - whether it's good, bad, or indifferent - you kind of fall in love with it. You fall in love with the experience, you fall in love with the memories.

Clockwork could not run counter to its nature. The seconds, minutes, and hours moved only forward. Patient, precise, and unstoppable. Memory was an indulgence, an illusion that broke like a wave upon the juggernaut of time. The past remained the past.

I think there are people who do write regionally, because that's their subject matter - the way the sunset looks over a strip mall, memories of flirting at the ice rink, waking up to a deer at the window... Up to now, that hasn't been mine.

I have a vague memory of seeing an image of a child in an iron lung and the phrase "sad little breathing machine" coming into my head. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that on certain days - the worse ones - we could all be described as sad little breathing machines.

I was thinking about hitting races and stuff, but it's just, I think it's more of the era of when I was a kid and it just brings back memories. I gotta just chill and live in the past.