Christian Lacroix Quotes

Every man who has lived for fifty years has buried a whole world or even two; he has grown used to its disappearance and accustomed to the new scenery of another act: but suddenly the names and faces of a time long dead appear more and more often on his way, calling up series of shades and pictures kept somewhere, "just in case," in the endless catacombs of the memory, making him smile or sigh, and sometimes almost weep.

I explore it now in the only place left for it, my memory.

...You can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back.

People look to you to replace a part in their lives that they can't get back. You can't get the past back, you can't do it. We've all tried.

There's no sustenance in the past.

Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

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

When I think about it, 20 years really seems like a blink of an eye sometimes. I wish I would have made a more concerted effort to enjoy things along the way.

What's gone will never come back, but it exists when you think of it.

It's easy to get buried in the past when you try to make a good thing last.

Memory is the sense of loss, and loss pulls us after it.

The past is one evil less and one memory more.

Because it is senior year I have begun to see things as potential absences. The things I love will become the things I'll miss.

It wasn't that I forgot Hanna. But at a certain point the memory of her stopped accompanying me wherever I went. She stayed behind, the way a city stays behind as a train pulls out of the station. It's there, somewhere behind you, and you could go back and make sure of it. But why should you?

Why doesn't the past decently bury itself, instead of sitting waiting to be admired by the present?

There is no distance on this earth as far away as yesterday.

Regrets are so far from reality.

Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.

In my nostrils still lives the breath of flowers that perished twenty years ago.

For they might be parted for hundreds of years, she and Peter; she never wrote a letter and his were dry sticks; but suddenly it would come over her, If he were with me now what would he say? --some days, some sights bringing him back to her calmly, without the old bitterness; which perhaps was the reward of having cared for people; they came back in the middle of St. James's Park on a fine morning--indeed they did.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

The past is a great place and I don't want to erase it or to regret it, but I don't want to be its prisoner either.