In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
As we wander, grieving, in yet another dark moment, amid our pain we must struggle to remember the redemptive power of love and hope.
Beware thoughts that come in the night.
To be a character who feels a deep emotion, one must go into the memory's vault and mix in a sad memory from one's own life.
Night is the mother of thoughts.
Memories have huge staying power, but like dreams, they thrive in the dark, surviving for decades in the deep waters of our minds like shipwrecks on the sea bed.
It is curious to note how fragile the memory is, even for the important times in one's life. This is, moreover, what explains the fortunate fantasy of history.
You can feel very quickly as a prisoner of your past, of the memories.
A good memory is surely a compost heap that converts experience to wisdom, creativity, or dottiness; not that these things are of much earthly value, but at least they may keep you amused when the world is keeping you locked away or shutting you out.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.