Explore Quotes on Memories

Family holidays and weekends are really brightly colored memories, full of my mother and father, rather than our nannies and au pairs.

Isn't it funny how the memories you cherish before a breakup can become your worst enemies afterwards? The thoughts you loved to think about, the memories you wanted to hold up to the light and view from every angle-it suddenly seems a lot safer to lock them in a box, far from the light of day and throw away the key. It's not an act of bitterness. It's an act if self-preservation. It's not always a bad idea to stay behind the window and look out at life instead, is it?

Memory is a crazy woman who hoards colored rags and throws away food.

It does not seem a year_x000D__x000D_Since last we sent to you_x000D__x000D_Our wishes for your special day_x000D__x000D_And all that you would do._x000D__x000D_And once again we wish you_x000D__x000D_All joyous things and more_x000D__x000D_A day that's filled with happiness_x000D__x000D_And memories to store._x000D__x000D_Then when you think in years to come_x000D__x000D_Of Birthdays long ago_x000D__x000D_You may remember fondly_x000D__x000D_How much we love you so._x000D__x000D_So have a day of pleasure_x000D__x000D_Do things that make you smile_x000D__x000D_For .............. you are treasured_x000D__x000D_Today and all the while.

We're sending you best wishes_x000D__x000D_And hope your day goes well_x000D__x000D_And that you'll find some memories_x000D__x000D_With stories you can tell_x000D__x000D_Of how you had a marvelous time_x000D__x000D_And those around you too_x000D__x000D_With fun and lots of laughter_x000D__x000D_And all this just for you.._x000D__x000D_Have a Very Happy Birthday

I think a lot of us can relate to not choosing to face a painful memory, and something that's a painful past, and wanting to pretend like it never happened.

Sudan is not really a country at all, but many. A composite layers, like a genetic fingerprint of memories that were once fluid, but have since crystallized out from the crucible of possibility

As time passes, the day will come when everything will fade to memories. But those miraculous days, when you and I, along with everyone else, searched together for just that one thing, will continue revolving forever somewhere deep in my heart, as my bittersweet memory.

This great Mughal Emperor [Akbar] was illiterate; he could neither read nor write. However, that had not stopped Akbar from cultivating the acquaintance of the most learned and cultured poets, authors, musicians, and architects of the time - relying solely on his remarkable memory during conversations with them.

Dreams have consequences. There is no turning back. A revolution is not a painless march to the gates of freedom and justice. It is a struggle between rage and hope, between the temptation to destroy and the desire to build. Its temperament is desperate. It is a tormented response to the past, to all that has happened, the recalled and unrecalled injustices - for the memory of a revolution reaches much further back than the memory of its protagonists.

I often remember in this false, distorted way, and the memories are often cloaked in the colour of the sun. Sometimes I feel nostalgia for things I knew I hated when they were happening, for days spent at the beach or the swimming pool with my sisters._x000D_When I pick my memories apart, I realise my mind has merely played back the objective ingredients, the clichéd apparatus of happiness, the sun, the sound of splashing water, ice-cream on parched lips and cold fizzy drink on a hot tongue, and laugher too. My memory often peddles on the falsehood of past happiness. I should know this.

You are the architect of the memories that others will have about you.

Two years after my mother died, my father fell in love with a glamorous blonde Ukrainian divorcée. He was eighty-four and she was thirty-six. She exploded into our lives like a fluffy pink grenade, churning up the murky water, bringing to the surface a sludge of sloughed-off memories, giving the family ghosts a kick up the backside.

Stories are a kind of thing, too. Stories and objects share something, a patina. I thought I had this clear, two years ago before I started, but I am no longer sure how this works. Perhaps a patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed, the way that a striated stone tumbled in a river feels irreducible, the way that this netsuke of a fox has become little more than a memory of a nose and a tail. But it also seems additive, in the way that a piece of oak furniture gains over years and years of polishing, and the way the leaves of my medlar shine.

How far back does one's memory of someone go?

I found everything so remote but, at the same time, familiar when I occasionally looked into the mountains, rocks, pine trees and plums depicted in old literati paintings. My innermost feeling which was awakened by the same mountains, rocks, pine trees and plums has been totally and utterly changed. Moreover, like an apparition, it hides deep down in my vessels. The very trees and rocks have become the storage of memories and emotions from various eras. Forced by the rapid change of time and perspective, I cannot help but feel urged to face up to these things once again.

And once again we wish you All joyous things and more A day that's filled with happiness And memories to store.

What I remember best from those times is the music itself. When it succeded, we took hold of the audience's attention, working it from a distracted, unshaped mass into spun beauty, passing the fine strands back and forth until we wove together something grander, not only music but memory, too-the particulars of past and present, stretched taut across a loom of timeless ideals. Harmony. Symmetry. Order.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

Teach nothing new, but instill into all men's breasts those things which the Fathers of revered memory have with harmony of statement taught... Preach nothing else than what we received from our forefathers... Accordingly, both in the rule of faith and in the observance of discipline, let the standard of antiquity be maintained throughout.

Blessed be the memory of him who gave the world this immortal game