Dante Gabriel Rossetti Quotes

You have been mine before - How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, - I knew it all of yore.

There are two smells that I can recognize right away. The smell of the boxing ring and the smell of a garage. That's where I grew up. I can recognize these places with my eyes closed.

Maybe when we die, the first thing we'll say is 'I know this feeling. I was here before'.

It's easier to go somewhere if you've been there before.

Proust writes, he remembers, physically. He depends on his body to give him the information that will bring him to the past. His book is called 'In Search of Lost Time,' and he does it through the senses. He does it through smell. He does it through feeling. He does it through texture. It is all physically driven, that language.

About once every four days, someone comes up to me and is like, 'Hey, I know you from somewhere.'

You're surprised by something, but you don't really know what surprised you; you recognize someone, but you don't really know what cues cause you to recognize that person.

Middle age is when you've met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else.

Melody is a form of remembrance. It must have a quality of inevitability in our ears.

I feel, first of all, very privileged that these people think enough of me that they made me commissioner. And it's almost like, as Yogi Berra said, 'deja vu all over again.'

People recognize me, but I get a lot of, 'Didn't I go to camp with you?'

When I go back to New York all these years later, I'll walk down Seventh Avenue, and I'll hear, 'Yo, Oz!' In New York, I get recognized for that all the time.

When I cook certain dishes, I smell my grandmother's kitchen, my grandmother's smells. I thought, 'What a wonderful way to tell a story.'

Because of Iowa, I like being in a different state that doesn't even have grass and think that I smell fresh-cut grass. It brings me home.

Taking walks sometimes bring back memories of my childhood because a smell might trigger a memory.

Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.

The sense of smell is the hair-trigger of memory.

It was good to walk into a library again; it smelled like home.

She got under the covers and put her arms around the bag. She could smell Tibby. It used to be she couldn't smell Tibby's smell in the way you couldn't smell your own; it was too familiar. But tonight she could. This was some living part of Tibby still here and she held on to it. There was more of Tibby with her here and now than in what she had seen in the cold basement room that day.

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away.

And only the enlightened can recall their former lives; for the rest of us, the memories of past existences are but glints of light, twinges of longing, passing shadows, disturbingly familiar, that are gone before they can be grasped, like the passage of that silver bird on Dhaulagiri.

How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet; now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.

Somewhere in my soul a thought went up in my mind today that I have had before, but did not finish, some way back, I could not fix the year. Nor where it went, nor why it came the second time to me, nor definetly what it was, have I the art to say. But somewhere in my soul, I know I've met the thing before; it just reminded me-' twas all'-and came my way no more.

I had been there before; I knew all about it.

Smell remembers and tells the future. ... Smell is home or loneliness. Confidence or betrayal. Smell remembers.