Ben Gibbard Quotes

When I'm 60, maybe, I'll look at my pile of papers and wonder, What really happened that year?

How weird it was to drive streets I knew so well. What a different perspective.

I tend to live in the past because most of my life is there.

I can barely remember what I was like 36 years ago when I was 21 years old.

There is a sense of melancholy attached to seeing images of yourself from a different era, especially when you see a picture.

I dwell in the past.

I'll admit, when I look back on the past couple decades, a lot of it seems like a blur.

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

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix-tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

It's like I'm stuck in a time bubble. Memories keep coming back, and of course, memories are a huge part of literature and cinema, from "Stand by Me" to "Blade Runner."

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.

It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my being

What was our life like? I almost don't remember now. Though I remember it, the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly.

I came in 11 years ago. I remember it like it was tomorrow

What was the use of my having come from Oakland it was not natural to have come from there yes write about it if I like or anything if I like but not there, there is no there there.

Memory has a heavy backspin, yet it’s still impossible to land exactly where we took off.

I listen to the tick of an unseen clock marking moments of time long passed.

I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. ... 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. Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more

You count on it, you rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.

But... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly. "The past isn't real. it's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention the past.

The Past is such a curious Creature To look her in the Face A Transport may receipt us Or a Disgrace-.

I've been back home since November and gradually all connections with my HP life have been fading. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like it was a dream because everything has gone back almost exactly to how it was before it all happened. It's possible to forget and it’s only when someone asks ‘when’s the movie coming out?’ that I remember 'oh yes, that'.

People robbed of their past seem to make the most fervent picture takers, at home and abroad.