Oh, to me not drinking is like being dead, almost. I sit here taking endless journeys down memory lane. It gets boring.
Anticipation of movement, through muscular innervation and memory, by its retention of nerve impulse images, extend the present to the limit of a second or so.
I don't profess to be an expert on anything, or have the memory for who ran in 1952. I am an informed American citizen, that's my position.
Life is just like an ocean; we are moving without end. Nothing stays with us, what remains is just the memories of someone who touched us like waves.
It's like your children talking about holidays, you find they have a quite different memory of it from you. Perhaps everything is not how it is, but how it's remembered.
I've always wanted to throw a party where everyone comes with their mother's meatloaf. Everybody could evoke their mother's memory through her meatloaf.
Since there is no real silence, Silence will contain all the sounds, All the words, all the languages, All knowledge, all memory.
We all leave behind bits of loose thread. Old operations, old enemies. They pull at you, like memories of old lovers.
Everything that is past is either a learning experience to grow on, a beautiful memory to reflect on, or a motivating factor to act upon.
Since it is not granted to us to live long, let us transmit to posterity some memorial that we have at least lived.
My mother relied on her memory to do things because she couldn't read. Part of that was not really knowing numbers.
When my father was assassinated, I decided that I would not compete with his memory, but the priority would be to achieve his dream.
Memories are those endless treasures, which we can keep exploring till eternity and bask in their glory like a slow swinging hammock!
People ask me if I am going to write my memoirs. But even if I wanted to, I would not be able. I have extremely few memories.
Memories were fine but you couldn't touch them, smell them or hold them. They were never exactly as the moment was, and they faded with time.
Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
I actually interviewed other people about myself, and that alerted me to the fact that I had to really investigate my memories.
When I was four, we moved to the house on the west side of Chicago where I grew up. My earliest memories are of that first summer.
Memory is a sly devil that pretends to wear the cloak of truth, but deceives us both in our youth and our age.
Sometimes memory is the only gift we give ourselves and the only hope we have of finding our way home.
I still have a vivid memory of my excitement when I first saw a chart of the periodic table of elements.
