Michel De Certeau Quotes

Love, however, is very materially assisted by a warm and active imagination: which has a long memory, and will thrive, for a considerable time, on very slight and sparing food.

I'll be a story in your head. That's okay. We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? 'Cause it was, you know. It was the best. The daft old man who stole a magic box and ran away. Did I ever tell you that I stole it? Well I borrowed it. I was always going to take it back.

If there is any realm where distinction is especially difficult, it is the realm of childhood memories, the realm of beloved images harbored in memory since childhood. These memories which live by the image and in virtue of the image become, at certain times of our lives and particularly during the quiet age, the origin and matter of a complex reverie: the memory dreams, and reverie remembers.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

There is a stage you reach, Deagle thinks, a time somewhere in early middle age, when your past ceases to be about yourself. Your connection to your former life is like a dream or delirium, and that person who you once were is merely a fond acquaintance, or a beloved character from a storybook. This is how memory becomes nostalgia. They are two very different things - the same way that a person is different from a photograph of a person.

Things you did. Things you never did. Things you dreamed. After a long time they run together.

Don’t you understand?” he would say, “You imagine the story better than I remember it.

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

'The Secret Garden' was the first musical that I fell in love with when I was a kid. My mom took me to see it, and it was the first one that I owned the soundtrack to and listened to over and over again.

I'll see you in my dreams.

When I was a young girl, I'd love giving book reports.

I love stories. I loved stories when I was a kid. My mom read stories to me all the time.

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms inside your head, and people in them, acting. People you know, yet can't quite name.

I love fantasy; I love imagination - that's the inner child in me.

Growing up in the hot Last Vegas desert, all I wanted was to be free. I would daydream about traveling the world, living in a place where it snowed, and I would picture all of the stories that I would go on to tell.

I kept notebooks as a kid, and they were important to me.

We all have our time machines, don't we. Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward, are dreams.

I'll be a story in your head. But that's OK. We're all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was, you know; it was the best.

When I remember bygone days I think how evening follows morn So many I loved were not yet dead, So many I love were not yet born.

Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.

I love to make stories out of license plates on cars about the initials and the numbers - my mum used to do that with me.

Memory is the best of all gardens. Therein, winter and summer, the seeds of their past lie dormant, ready to spring into instant bloom at any moment the mind wishes to bring them to life.

It is a great feeling to know that from a window I can go to books to cans of beer to past loves. And from these gather enough dream to sneak out a back door.

From the subterranean ore of memory we extract the jeweled visions of our future.