We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward, are dreams.
If I had known I'd be on Matador back then in my childhood, it would have blown my mind.
I remember everything from 1976. I remember I was 14, and I remember my routines.
to look back on one's life is to experience the capriciousness of memory. ... the past is not static. It can be relived only in memory, and memory is a device for forgetting as well as remembering. It, too, is not immutable. It rediscovers, reinvents, reorganizes. Like a passage of prose it can be revised and repunctuated. To that extent, every autobiography is a work of fiction and every work of fiction an autobiography.
Now I am in my eighties, and I have known the joys and sorrows of a full life. Age, however, has its privileges. One is to reminisce, and another is to reminisce selectively.
I have written my life in small sketches, a little today, a little yesterday, as I have thought of it, as I remember all the things from childhood on through the years, good ones and unpleasant ones, that is how they come out and that is how we have to take them.
If ever they remembered their life in this world it was as one remembers a dream.
You know, I'm trying to sometimes sit down and write some stories about my childhood and maybe one when I'm an old lady put them out like a book.
You probably wouldn't remember. I probably couldn't forget.
In a funny way, I like the past, I'm a very nostalgic person.
I love that moment of, 'Remember when?' I love to waft.
Indy, I have lots of great memories from there, and probably the part of me that doesn't feel quite as longing for it is that there is still a chance that I could do it again. It's not gone.
Nothing awakens reminiscence like an aroma.
One puts off the biography like you put off death. To write an autobiography is to etch the words on your own gravestone.
We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.
A lively retrospect summons back to us once more our youth, with vivid reflex of its early joys and unstained pleasures.
I remember some of the biggest mistakes I have made really, really well.
Do you remember Italy?
On the rare occasions when I spend a night in Oxford, the keeping of the hours by the clock towers in New College, and Merton, and the great booming of Tom tolling 101 times at 9 pm at Christ Church are inextricably interwoven with memories and regrets and lost joys. The sound almost sends me mad, so intense are the feelings it evokes.
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
In memory, you can access something from the past, anything that you've experienced that you remember - it's there. Now, you might have a memento of it in a photograph or in a film or a building or some clothes that you wore. There might be something that connects you to this memory. But all of us are just all caught in this time, whatever that is.
I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.
When I was a kid, I would always write down lists of my favorite things and keep them in my wallet, just in case someone ever needed to know what my 10 favorite foods were, or my 10 favorite actors.
The past does not only draw us back to the past. There are certain memories of the past that have strong steel springs and, when we who live in the present touch them, they are suddenly stretched taut and then they propel us into the future.
I can remember the World's Fair in New York in 1964; I was three.
