Umberto Eco Quotes

You read the past in some old faces.

I do remember being young.

Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.

Sometimes when I'm with you, I remember things I lost when I was your age. Like I remember the sound of the rain and the smell of the wind.

But standing in that hallway, it was all coming back to me. Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

[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.

These memories, which are my life--for we possess nothing certainly except the past--were always with me.

I remember way back when I was young, 10 years ago.

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

I'm growing old, I delight in the past.

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.

Then again, I think about high school every day and I think about being a little kid every day too.

Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories.

I do enjoy thinking about the past.

It strikes me that this may be one of the differences between youth and age: when we are young, we invent different futures for ourselves; when we are old, we invent different pasts for others.

…she remembered watching a summer sunset from this very spot. Not so long ago; just a lifetime.

I am sifting my memories, the way men pan the dirt under a barroom floor for the bits of gold dust that fall between the cracks. It's small mining-- small mining. You're too young a man to be panning memories, Adam. You should be getting yourself some new ones, so that the mining will be richer when you come to age.

Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees ... one's happiness, one's reality?

My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time. We possess nothing certainly except the past.

I was listening to this Adele song, where she's like, "When we were young..." I was like, "You're 27. Are you kidding me?

Memory is the medium of the must-have-been.

All our tastes are but reminiscences.

I still preserve those relics of past sufferings and experience, like pillars of witness set up in travelling through the valve of life, to mark particular occurrences. The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the country may be changed; but the pillar is still there, to remind me how all things were when it was reared.

One of the reasons why old people make so many journeys into the past is to satisfy themselves that it is still there.