Nicholas Sparks Quotes

Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

Over time, I've paid attention, taken notes and forgotten easily half of everything I've gone through.

Our memory is and always will be as good as time travel gets, and in the meantime time will do the travelling for us.

The stream of thought flows on; but most of its segments fall into the bottomless abyss of oblivion. Of some, no memory survives the instant of their passage. Of others, it is confined to a few moments, hours or days. Others, again, leave vestiges which are indestructible, and by means of which they may be recalled as long as life endures.

The memory of everything is very soon overwhelmed in time.

The calendar has a magic that makes us imagine a memory can be resurrected and revived, but nothing returns.

memories fall apart too.

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

All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

Time can be a greedy thing-sometimes it steals the details for itself.

There is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor pain which death does not terminate.

And what did I think when I was small and why did I forget? And what else will I forget when I grow older? And if you forget is it as if it never happened? Will none of the things you saw or thought or dreamed matter?

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

The past scampers like an alley cat through the present, leaving the paw prints of memories scattered helter-skelter.

I am interested in the past. Perhaps one of the reasons is we cannot make, cannot change the past. I mean you can hardly unmake the present. But the past after all is merely to say a memory, a dream. You know my own past seems continually changed when I am remembering it, or reading things that are interesting to me.

Remembrances last longer than present realities.

And though I remember her name I cannot recall her face. All things pass.

That's the trouble with living things. Don't last very long. Kittens one day, old cats the next. And then just memories. And the memories fade and blend and smudge together.

Visiting old haunts is hard on memory. Things shrink, change, and disappear.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

I have a pretty good memory, but memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.

...the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you. This is half the reason for the cure: It clean-sweeps; it makes the past, and all its pain, distant, like the barest impression on sparkling glass.