Nothing stands still, except in our memory. — Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
Nothing stands still, except in our memory. — Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
Nothing stands still, except in our memory. — Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
Nothing stands still, except in our memory. — Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
Nothing stands still, except in our memory. — Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
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Nothing stands still, except in our memory.

— Philippa Pearce, Tom's Midnight Garden
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More “Memory” Quotes

Robbing people of their actual history is the same as robbing them of part of themselves. It’s a crime."Fuka-Eri thought — Haruki Murakami
Some people say the rain with no purpose and others say with memories and wishes — Tagor Manroo
Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,     The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,     The dark robe floating — Anna Seward, Original sonnets on various subjects; and odes paraphrased from Horace
The memory of the dead is indeed a good remorse. (Le souvenir des morts - Est bien un bon remords) — Charles de Leusse, Le Sablier
There are places we fear, places we dream, places whose exiles we became and never learned it until, sometimes, too late — Thomas Pynchon
She kept forcing herself to remember the entire conversation, playing it back and playing it back, all the way through, — Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl
In my restless dreams,I see that town.Silent Hill. — Sadamu Yamashita
A memory is lodged in the mind but a feeling inhabits the whole body — Denis Avey, The Man Who Broke Into Auschwitz: A True Story of World War II
The thought of her gave me such a continual anguish that I could no more forget her than an aching tooth. It was involun — Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
How unfortunate is the guy who does not live in the extravagant memory of an infatuated young woman. — Manu Joseph, The Illicit Happiness of Other People
I guess we all have some of these - memories like artillery shells, fired at close range. — Lauren Oliver, Rooms
Silently we went round and round,And through each hollow mindThe memory of dreadful thingsRushed like a dreadful wind,An — Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol