Don DeLillo Quotes

[Memory] is a passion no less powerful or pervasive than love. It is [the ability] to live in more than one world, to prevent the past from fading, and to call upon the future to illuminate it.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death; Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago

Heaven and earth conspire that everything which has been, be rooted and reduced to dust. Only the dreamers, who dream while awake, call back the shadows of the past and braid nets from the unspun thread.

The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment.

And so there would always be more to remember that could no longer be seen...our history is always returning to a little patch of weeds and saplings with an old chimney sticking up by itself...and here I look ahead to the resting of my case: I love the house that belonged to the chimney, holding it bright in memory, and love the saplings and the weeds.

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream, and you, if you dream a moment, You see me there.

All pasts are like poems; one can derive a thousand things, but not live in them.

I have a thousand images of you in an hour; all different and all coming back to the same. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you.

How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire

All whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them.

Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

People like the way dreams have of sticking to the soul.

In the days that follow, he begins to remember things about Moushumi, images that come to him without warning while he is sitting at his desk at work, or during a meeting, or drifting off to sleep, or standing in the mornings under the shower. They are scenes he has carried within him, buried but intact, scenes he has never thought about or had reason to conjure up until now.

There are people you remember and people you dream of.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes.

The Iran I'm dreaming of maybe doesn't exist anymore.

But where are the snows of yester year?

There is no fence nor hedge round time that is gone. You can go back and have what you like of it if you can remember.

At night I dream about going to where I played when I was still young.

I would like to go back to Wales. I'm obsessed with my childhood and at least three times a week dream I am back there.

People try to keep their past, like kind of holding on to their past. Every Springsteen song talks about that.

A lot of things you see as a child remain with you... you spend a lot of your life trying to recapture the experience.