I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting' with 'It is here in my heart and mind and memories.'
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Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow
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History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of man.
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I think of you often and make no outward show, But what it means to lose you, no one will ever know You wished no one farewell, not even said good-bye, You were gone before I knew it, and only God knows why. You are not forgotten nor will you ever be, As long as life and memories last, I will remember thee. To some you may be forgotten, to others a part of the past, But to me who loved you dearly, your memories will always last. Nothing can be more beautiful than the memories I have of you. To me, you were someone special, God must have thought so too! If tears could build a staircase and memories a lane, I would walk all the way to Heaven, and bring you back again.
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Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.
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Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land.
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Human memory is a marvelous but fallacious instrument. The memories which lie within us are not carved in stone; not only do they tend to become erased as the years go by, but often they change, or even increase by incorporating extraneous features.
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Childhood has no forebodings, but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.
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San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
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God gave us memories, that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.
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Today the world changes so quickly that in growing up we take leave not just of youth but of the world we were young in. Fear and resentment of what is new is really a lament for the memories of our childhood.
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The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.
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And at his heart there may have gnawed Sick memories of a dead faith foiled and flawed
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I pray our Heavenly Father will assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you with only the cherished memories of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
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For the sense of smell, almost more than any other, has the power to recall memories and it is a pity that you use it so little.
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This coffee plunges into the stomach...the mind is aroused, and ideas pour forth like the battalions of the Grand Army on the field of battle.... Memories charge at full gallop...the light cavalry of comparisons deploys itself magnificently; the artillery of logic hurry in with their train of ammunition; flashes of wit pop up like sharp-shooters.
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Even though fathers, grandparents, siblings, memories of ancestors are important agents of socialization, our society focuses on the attribute...
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Today the world changes so quickly that in growing up we take leave not just of youth but of the world we were young in ... Fear and resentment of what is new is really a lament for the memories of our childhood.
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History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.
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God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.
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Newlyweds, they have this ideal, this picture of what marriage is like, something similar of their favorite memories growing up. If only it were that simple.
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Memories are the most beautiful pictures our minds can paint, and nothing can ever erase them.
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Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories.
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I answer the heroic question Death where is thy sting? It is here in my heart and mind and memories
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Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
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Or, at least, one-tenth of the cabin trunks were full of vivid and often painful and uncomfortable memories of her past life; the other nine-tenths were full of penguins, which suprised her. Insofar as she recognized at all that she was dreaming, she realized she must be exploring her own subconscious mind. She had heard it said that humans are supposed to use only about a tenth of their brains, and that no one was very clear what the other nine tenths were for, but she certainly never heard it suggested that they were used for storing penguins.
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This [eating animals] appears from the frequent hard-heartedness and cruelty found among those persons whose occupations engage them in destroying animal life, as well as from the uneasiness which others feel in beholding the butchery of animals. It is most evident in respect to the larger animals and those with whom we have a familiar intercourse—such as oxen, sheep, and domestic fowls, etc. They resemble us greatly in the make of the body, in general, and in that of the particular organs of circulation, respiration, digestion, etc.; also in the formation of their intellects, memories and passions, and in the signs of distress, fear, pain and death. They often, likewise, win our affections by the marks of peculiar sagacity, by their instincts, helplessness, innocence, nascent benevolence, etc., and if there be any glimmering hope of an ‘hereafter’ for them—if they should prove to be our brethren and sisters in this higher sense—in immortality as well as mortality, in the permanent principle of our minds as well as in the frail dust of our bodies—this ought to be still further reason for tenderness for them.
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Like the wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we are, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment.
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Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.
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Our memories are card indexes consulted, and then put back in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
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