Recalling Quotes

“But she didn't want to recall things. She wanted to live things — or as a compromise, relive rather than reminisce.”
― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

“It’s not that I can’t remember. It’s that I prefer not to remember, which means that I prefer not to remember what not remembering did to me the last time I did it.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough, An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons

“Do I forget, or do I refuse to remember?”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough

“Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror.”
― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

“You must tune everything else out and create from your heart."
I nod, dipping my brush in red acrylic, then white, before mixing the paints on the palette until they form a perfect pink.
I paint a peony, and then another. I somehow recall a garden, far away from here, where there were (are?) peonies. I remember the way the blossoms are so heavy that they flounce over, and I reach for another brush and dip it into green to get the stems just right.”
― Sarah Jio, All the Flowers in Paris

“I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I'm going to fix this."
Salt.
More than salt.
Morton's. Himalayan.
Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe.
Maura.
So much more than salt.
Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her.
He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Something salty--- he was salty in it--- all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection.
He recalls it--- the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin--- lets it travel along his tongue--- his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness--- rolls it like a marble inside his mouth--- the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad's defeat, his own terrible regret--- and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory--- the ache for attention, for connection, for love.
It's a subtle salt. Delicate.
Fleur de sel.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste