Mary Roberts Rinehart Quotes

No matter where I am in the world, I will always be back home for Christmas.

The things we truly love stay with us always, locked in our hearts as long as life remains.

Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving. What you have caught on film is captured forever... it remembers little things, long after you have forgotten everything.

My memories of Christmas, it was more about being around family.

What's love without a soundtrack, you know?

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.

The heart is a museum, filled with the exhibits of a lifetime's loves.

My heart is definitely here, and there's no place like home.

MUSIC I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table and this silver,And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them,And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

When someone is in your heart, they're never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.

For children, Christmas is anticipation. For adults, Christmas is memory.

For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.

The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood [p. 53]

Where intuition finds, love follows, and memory and all the soul as well.

I'm just corny enough to like to have a story hit me over the heart.

What an enormous magnifier is tradition! How a thing grows in the human memory and in the human imagination, when love, worship, and all that lies in the human heart, is there to encourage it

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.

Time has a funny way of collapsing when you go back to a place you once loved. You find yourself thinking, I was kissed in that building, I climbed up that tree.

I love people, but I love the thought and memory of them just as much.

Remembrance is to the heart what water is to the fish. And what is the state of a fish that leaves water?

Back on its golden hinges The gate of Memory swings, And my heart goes into the garden And walks with the olden things.

Love is not a theme. It's an atmosphere, a mood.

Every house we have lived in, every building to which our hands have lent their work, belongs to us by virtue of love or of regret.

Falling in love with you in the Summer Garden in the white nights in Leningrad is the moment that propels me through life.