Recreating Old Memories Quotes

#1. I'd seen old Yardley Slickers- the makeup now just a waxy crumble- sell for almost one hundred dollars on the internet. So grown women could smell it again, that chemical, flowery fug. That's how badly people wanted it- to know that their lives had happened, that the person they once had been, still existed inside of them.

There were so many things that returned me. The tang of soy, the smoke in someone's hair, the grassy hills turning blond in June. An arrangement of oaks and boulders could, seen out of the corner of my eye, crack open something in my chest, palms going suddenly slick with adrenaline. #Quote by Emma Cline

#2. The witch approached it and pared its edges with a sword that she drew from her thigh. Then she sat down beside it on the earth and sang to it while it cooled. Not like the runes that enraged the flames was the song she sang to the sword: she whose curses had blasted the fire till it shrivelled big logs of oak crooned now a melody like a wind in summer blowing from wild wood gardens that no man tended, down valleys loved once by children, now lost to them but for dreams, a song of such memories as lurk and hide along the edges of oblivion, now flashing from beautiful years of glimpse of some golden moment, now passing swiftly out of remembrance again, to go back to the shades of oblivion, and leaving on the mind those faintest traces of little shining feet which when dimly perceived by us are called regrets. She sang of old Summer noons in the time of harebells: she sang on that high dark heath a song that seemed so full of mornings and evenings preserved with all their dews by her magical craft from days that had else been lost, that Alveric wondered of each small wandering wing, that her fire had lured from the dusk, if this were the ghost of some day lost to man, called up by the force of her song from times that were fairer. #Quote by Lord Dunsany

#3. I hope you gaze at cloud art galleries
against azure summer skies
and pause to gasp at rainbows
and watch butterflies fly by;
I hope wildflowers make you happy
and sad songs make you cry
and old books stacked in dusty nooks
are gems you can't pass by;
I hope burnt toast mornings
are little things
you handle with a smile
and midnight talks and starlit walks
keep you up once in awhile;
I hope laundry warm from the dryer
brings a sigh of contentment
and front porch swings on cool evenings
offer rest when you are spent;
I hope your life is light in sorrow
and heavy with laughter
and you greet each season of your life
like a new favorite chapter;
I hope you honor every soul you meet
and always go that extra mile
and when you think of me, my love,
I hope it's with a smile. #Quote by L.R. Knost

#4. We take it for granted that life moves forward. You build memories; you build momentum.You move as a rower moves: facing backwards.

You can see where you've been, but not where you're going. And your boat is steered by a younger version of you.

It's hard not to wonder what life would be like facing the other way. Avenoir.

You'd see your memories approaching for years, and watch as they slowly become real.

You'd know which friendships will last, which days are important, and prepare for upcoming mistakes. You'd go to school, and learn to forget.

One by one you'd patch things up with old friends, enjoying one last conversation before you
meet and go your separate ways.

And then your life would expand into epic drama. The colors would get sharper, the world would feel bigger.

You'd become nothing other than yourself, reveling in your own weirdness.

You'd fall out of old habits until you could picture yourself becoming almost anything.

Your family would drift slowly together, finding each other again.

You wouldn't have to wonder how much time you had left with people, or how their lives would turn out.

You'd know from the start which week was the happiest you'll ever be, so you could relive it again and again.

You'd remember what home feels like,
and decide to move there for good.

You'd grow smaller as the years pass, as if #Quote by The Dictionary Of Obscure Sorrows

#5. Think back through your experiences and make a bullet point list of funny stories that have happened to you or your friends. Travel, school, college, parties, work, interaction with parents/in-laws, embarrassing situations, etc. Looking at old photos will help to jog memories. #Quote by David Nihill

#6. Happy indeed is the naturalist: to him the seasons come round like old friends; to him the birds sing: as he walks along, the flowers stretch out from the hedges, or look up from the ground, and as each year fades away, he looks back on a fresh store of happy memories. #Quote by John Lubbock

#7. Until the Great Depression, most economists clung to a vision of capitalism as a perfect or nearly perfect system. That vision wasn't sustainable in the face of mass unemployment, but as memories of the Depression faded, economists fell back in love with the old, idealized vision of an economy in which rational individuals interact in perfect markets. #Quote by Paul Krugman

#8. Our modern microscopes, scanners, and sensors have disabused us of most of the old fanciful notions about the brain's function. But the brain's strangely remote quality - the way it seems both part of us and apart from us - still influences our perceptions in subtle ways. We have a sense that our brain exists in a state of splendid isolation, that its fundamental nature is impervious to the vagaries of our day-to-day lives. While we know that our brain is an exquisitely sensitive monitor of experience, we want to believe that it lies beyond the influence of experience. We want to believe that the impressions our brain records as sensations and stores as memories leave no physical imprint on its own structure. To believe otherwise would, we feel, call into question the integrity of the self. #Quote by Nicholas Carr

#9. When we bury the old, we bury the known past, the past we imagine sometimes better than it was, but the past all the same, a portion of which we inhabited. Memory is the overwhelming theme, the eventual comfort. But burying infants, we bury the future, unwieldy and unknown, full of promise and possibilities, outcomes punctuated by our rosy hopes. The grief has no borders, no limits, no known ends, and the little infant graves that edge the corners and fencerows of every cemetery are never quite big enough to contain that grief. Some sadnesses are permanent. Dead babies do not give us memories. They give us dreams. #Quote by Thomas Lynch

#10. Societies as well as people become afraid of change as they grow older. It's human nature. The young have adventures while the old sit at home and nurture their memories. #Quote by Paul J. McAuley

#11. Old friends are the great blessings of one's later years. Half a word conveys one's meaning. They have a memory of the same events, have the same mode of thinking. I have young relations that may grow upon me, for my nature is affectionate, but can they grow To Be old friends? #Quote by Horace Walpole

#12. One of the things that helps use cope with loss is the fact that while memories may remian, the emotions associated with them will fade like old photographs. At the same time, there is a masochistic desire to retain those feelings spurred on by the dread of losing the power they hold. Sometimes I can't think of anything more awful than simply being human. #Quote by James Pratt

#13. It's funny how misery takes you straight back, connecting the dots through your life - the memories tumble out like sad photographs from a battered old album. #Quote by Keith Stuart

#14. It is not strange that that early love of the heart should come back, as it so often does when the dim eye is brightening with its last light. It is not strange that the freshest fountains the heart has ever known in its wastes should bubble up anew when the lifeblood is growing stagnant. It is not strange that a bright memory should come to a dying old man, as the sunshine breaks across the hills at the close of a stormy day; nor that in the light of that ray, the very clouds that made the day dark should grow gloriously beautiful. #Quote by Nathaniel Hawthorne

#15. For years it seemed to me that this period had become a recurrent nightmare that I had almost every night, because I would wake in the morning feeling the same terror I had felt in the room with the saint. During my adolescence, when I was a student at an icy boarding school in the Andes, I would wake up crying in the middle of the night. I needed old age without remorse to understand that the misfortune of my grandparents in the house in Catasa was that they were always mired in their nostalgic memories, and the more they insisted on conjuring them, the deper they sank. #Quote by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

#16. All evidence indicates that the neuron does not reset. The synapses do not reset. They are always different. They're changing every millisecond. Your brain today is very, very different from what it was when you were 10 years old, and yet you may have profound memories from when you were 10. #Quote by Henry Markram

#17. The house had been torn down. Nothing is left but the old white fence. There used to be privet bushes everywhere. "The smell of privet is the smell of summer for me," I say to Catherine.
"Yes, Mom." she says, "I know, Your memories are my memories now. #Quote by Abigail Thomas

#18. The first pages of memory are like the old family Bible. The first leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with handling. But, when we turn further, and come to the chapters where Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise, then, all begins to grow clear and legible. #Quote by Max Muller

#19. December is an old friend; it reminds you of the past, together you share some laughs and tears, you feel warm-hearted though it's freezing outside. But, the goodbye is inevitable. May the memories we share with this friend next year be filled with comfort, peace and Love. #Quote by Mohamed Atef

#20. But it is possible, it is possible: the old grief, by a great mystery of human life, gradually passes into quiet, tender joy; instead of young, ebullient blood comes a mild, serene old age: I bless the sun's rising each day and my heart sings to it as before, but now I love its setting even more, its long slanting rays, and with them quiet, mild, tender memories, dear images from the whole of a long and blessed life
and over all is God's truth, moving, reconciling, all-forgiving! #Quote by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

#21. There are three signs of old age: loss of memory ... I forget the other two. #Quote by Red Skelton

#22. Most people are chained to their own fear and stupidity and haven't the sense to level a cold eye at just what is wrong with their lives. Most people will continue on, dissatisfied but never attempting to understand why, or how they might change things for the better, and they die with nothing in their hearts but dirt and old, thin blood - weak blood, diluted - and their memories aren't worth a goddamned thing. #Quote by Patrick DeWitt

#23. A Hard Life With Memory

I'm a poor audience for my memory.
She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,
but I fidget, fuss,
listen and don't,
step out, come back, then leave again.

She wants all my time and attention.
She's got no problem when I sleep.
The day's a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,
stirs up events both important and un-,
turns my eyes to overlooked views,
peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I'm always younger.
Which is nice, but why always the same story.
Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.
And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,
weighty, but easily forgotten.
Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.
Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.
Ideally in a dark, locked room,
but my plans still feature today's sun,
clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

At times I get fed up with her.
I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.
Then she smiles at me with pity,
since she knows it would be the end of me too. #Quote by Wisława Szymborska

#24. As usual, Vanderhyde's memory was sharp enough when it suited him. 'That's true. All the same, you were there.' 'Yes, I was. But I left several hours before the fire started. Not guilty, your honour.' 'Why were you there in the first place?' 'To meet a friend for a drink.' 'A seedy place for a drink.' 'Was it? You'll have to remember, Inspector, I couldn't see anything. It certainly didn't smell or feel particularly disreputable.' 'Point taken.' 'I had my memories. To me, it was the same old Central Hotel I'd lunched in and danced in. I quite enjoyed the evening. #Quote by Ian Rankin

#25. It's what you do with time that makes it matter. I'd rather spend a year making new memories than a thousand wandering around in the same old ones. #Quote by Mark Lawrence

#26. Most Humans lose access to old memories as they acquire new ones. They know how to speak, for instance, but they don't recall learning to speak. They keep what experience has taught them - usually - but lose the experience itself. We #Quote by Octavia E. Butler

#27. Eastward the dawn rose, ridge behind ridge into the morning, and vanished out of eyesight into guess; it was no more than a glimmer blending with the hem of the sky, but it spoke to them, out of the memory and old tales, of the high and distant mountains. #Quote by J.R.R. Tolkien

#28. That is what growing old consists of, mostly. One starts giving away items and belongings until only the memories are left. In the end, what else do we really require?
I examined her words carefully, and the answer came slowly but without any equivocation. Someone to share those memories with, I said finally, surprising myself. #Quote by Tan Twan Eng

#29. Sleep felt productive. Something was getting sorted out. I knew in my heart - this was, perhaps, the only thing my heart knew back then - that when I'd slept enough, I'd be okay. I'd be renewed, reborn. I would be a whole new person, every one of my cells regenerated enough times that the old cells were just distant, foggy memories. My past life would be but a dream, and I could start over without regrets, bolstered by the bliss and serenity that I would have accumulated in my year of rest and relaxation. #Quote by Ottessa Moshfegh

#30. Everyone was losing things, leaving things behind, clinging to old memories as they rushed into the future. Everyone was a passenger on a runaway train. It was true that Zen would be going farther than most. But at least he didn't #Quote by Philip Reeve

#31. She had lived thirty-four years keeping everything inside, and now she was letting everything go, like butterflies released from a box. They didn't burst forth, glad to be free, they simply flew away, softly, gradually, so she could watch them go. Good memories of her mother and grandmother were still there, butterflies that stayed, a little too old to go anywhere. That was okay. She would keep those. #Quote by Sarah Addison Allen

#32. The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers. #Quote by Rachel Vincent

#33. The human mind tends to estimate the probability of an event from the ease with which it can recall examples, and scenes of carnage are more likely to be beamed into our homes and burned into our memories than footage of people dying of old age. #Quote by Steven Pinker

#34. When a man rides a long time through wild regions he feels the desire for a city. Finally he comes to Isidora, a city where the buildings have spiral staircases encrusted with spiral seashells, where perfect telescopes and violins are made, where the foreigner hesitating between two women always encounters a third, where cockfights degenerate into bloody brawls among the bettors. He was thinking of all these things when he desired a city. Isidora, therefore, is the city of his dreams: with one difference. The dreamed-of city contained him as a young man; he arrives at Isidora in his old age. In the square there is the wall where the old men sit and watch the young go by; he is seated in a row with them. Desires are already memories. #Quote by Italo Calvino

#35. My happiest childhood memories are of times in our backyard. My mother had an old clothesline that hung out in front. It seemed like it stretched a mile long, and I loved sitting in the sun while she hung clothes. #Quote by Traci Lords

#36. What magic was this, brewed from equal parts of age-old memories and total oblivion. One could have believed that the last war these people had fought had left only happy memories, had carried in its wake nothing but joy and prosperity. Women and girls were smiling as if their sons and lovers were invulnerable. #Quote by Anna Seghers

#37. And last, My mom. I don't think you know what you did. You had my brother when you were eighteen years old. Three years later I came out. The odds were stacked against us. Single parent with two boys, By the time you were 21 years old. Everybody told us we wasn't supposed to be here. We moved from apartment to apartment, By ourselves. One of the best memories I have Is when we moved into our first apartment. No bed, No furniture, And we just all sat in the living room And just hugged each other ... 'Cause we thought we made it. #Quote by Kevin Durant

#38. Christmas is here, Merry old Christmas, Gift-bearing Christmas, Day of grand memories, King of the year! #Quote by Washington Irving

#39. What do the dead need?"
"Prayers, tea, and a little bit of whiskey." then seventeen-year-old Rebekkah answered, "They need nourishment."
"Memories, Love, Letting go," Maylene added. #Quote by Melissa Marr

#40. Some nights I'd sneak out and listen to the radio in my Dad's old Chevy - children need solitude - they don't teach that in school ... #Quote by John Geddes

#41. Old memories are very easy to get except that once you write about something you've destroyed it. #Quote by Annie Dillard

#42. And then you leave the memories behind.
When you look at the pictures
It seems like it was always fun.
But you know that
in that photos everyone was actually broken deep down inside.
Wounded.
Bleeding.
Crying and yelling at the same time.
They were some kinda wounded birds ...
Eagles, wrens ...
When you remind that,
you became some kinda phoenix.
And life goes on like this.
like an uncomplete poem. #Quote by Arzum Uzun

#43. My earliest memories of Gwyneth first singing is in bed when we would make up songs. The most I could do was harmonize, like, a third above, and at two years old, she'd be doing sixths. I said, 'Where in the world did that come from?' She'd just make up songs. #Quote by Blythe Danner

#44. Old men, for the most part, are like old chronicles that give you dull but true accounts of times past, and are worth knowing only on that score. #Quote by Alexander Pope