All Quotes By Tag: Memories

“One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling.Werner’s head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner’s thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home.Silver and blue, blue and silver.Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner’s chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears.The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be.Werner’s body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed.“Ernst,” says the man beside him. “Ernst.” But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass.The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon.Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater.“It’s all right,” he told her. “Things hardly ever work on the first try. We’ll make another, a better one.”Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat—a more seaworthy one—gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn’t it?The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass.Why doesn’t the wind move the light?Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand.“Stop,” he calls.“Halt,” he calls.But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.”

“Psychoanalysis is often about turning our ghosts into ancestors, even for patients who have not lost loved ones to death. We are often haunted by important relationships from the past that influence us unconsciously in the present. As we work them through, they go from haunting us to becoming simply part of our history.”

“Wherever you are and whatever you do, I hope you find the time to dwell in your favourite memories. It is one of the most beautiful and relaxing things we can do, no matter when and no matter where.”

“It was never love at first sight It was my heart nudging my mind to pay attentionMy mind imploring my heart to careMy thoughts willing my eyes to seeMy memories replaying your smileMy ears whispering your voiceMy feet stumbling towards youMy lips echoing your helloMy soul connecting with yours without knowingMy soul connecting with you without knowing you”

“I want to create a place for us, like a room. And I want to store everything that I come across as a memory of us, in there. Years after, someday I will take you there in the middle of the night. I want to see you at that moment. I want to watch you drowning in the memories helplessly, losing the bounds of time, getting weaker every second. And then I want to hold you in these arms in those moments of never-ending the silence. Where only our eyes speak, while we look at each other, like the dreams that we never want to stop seeing.”

“You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his kneesExcerpt from To Kiss a King by Grace WillowsComing this summer to Amazon Kindle and paperback.”

“Every corner and room of a house will carry memories, make these the most pleasurable times you shared with your family.”

“Even in your pains, troubles or difficulties, create unforgettable memories by putting a smile on the faces of others’.”

“Oh honey, someday a real man is going to make you see stars and you won’t even be looking at the sky.” Excerpt from Grace Willow’s Last Minute Bride”

“She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.”

“How is it that hearts hold on to memories with the strength of hope and possibilities.”

“Times like this were special. Memory builders. When something extraordinary happened to a person the kind of things remembered forever after it didn’t have to be a life-changing event like a graduation or marriage or birth of a child. It more often was the small things. The sheer joy of summer sunlight on a fragrant flower. The giggle of a toddler. The brush of a lover’s fingertips. And the person marks the moment with the flashing insight thinking… This is special. I should remember this”

“Just because it’s a dead-end, doesn’t mean it wasn’t wonderful while it lasted. It can be something to treasure.”(…) “A memory to light the darkness of years to follow.”

“They were people whose lives were slow, who did not see themselves growing old, or falling sick, or dying, but who disappeared little by little in their own time, turning into memories, mists from other days, until they were absorbed into oblivion.”

“I am filled time and againwith a heart-aching wonder when I thinkof the fireand frost of memoriesof the everlastingnessof lovethe solace of familyand the power of prayer.”