Albert Camus Quotes
Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.
Quotes to Explore
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I am a complete sentimentalist when it comes to clothes. I have so many memories attached to them that I can't throw anything out.
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Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories.
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To me the ego is the habitual and compulsive thought processes that go through everybody's mind continuously. External things like possessions or memories or failures or successes or achievements. Your personal history.
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Time dissolves in summer anyway: days are long, weekends longer. Hours get all thin and watery when you are lost in the book you'd never otherwise have time to read. Senses are sharper - something about the moist air and bright light and fruit in season - and so memories stir and startle.
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A lot of my childhood memories involve walking home in floods of tears. At that age, feeling unpopular is difficult to handle.
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Growing up in Poland, I didn't have the experience of going to Disneyland as a child, so I don't have any childhood memories connected to it, good or bad.
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On a very personal level, I have fond memories of spending a lot of time in the Library of Congress working on my collection of poems 'Native Guard.' I was there over a summer doing research in the archives and then writing in the reading room at the Jefferson building.
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Things don't really impress me. Memories impress me. It's not the toys, it's the people.
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Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!I feel ye now - I feel ye in your strength.
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Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide,Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time.The night is my companion, and solitude my guide.Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?And I would be the oneTo hold you down,Kiss you so hardI'll take your breath away.And after, I'd wipe away the tears,Just close your eyes dear.
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You'll be loved you'll be loved Like you never have known The memories of me Will seem more like bad dreams Just a series of blurs Like I never occurred Someday you will be loved
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Far away I've travelledTo stand once more alone.And hear my memories echoThrough these hills that I call home.As a child I roamed this valley,I watched the seasons come and go.I spent many hours dreamingOn these hills that I call home.
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Ooo there's a thin line between dreams and memoriesI'll be losin' my mind 'til she comes back to me.
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I like to celebrate my life. I have a life that I'm really lucky to have, and so I want to make sure every minute counts and that I go on great vacations and I share my memories with people that I love and that will make me laugh and lalalalalala.
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I have very fond memories of the Eagles from my experience with 'Invincible' and my college days in Philadelphia. But I am a Massachusetts girl and a Pats fan.
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My dad leaving my life. That's the biggest thing that happened to me. I just remember what he tells me, the memories, and try to move on forward each day, knowing that he's still here, looking down on me.
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My first and strongest memories about perfume come from childhood, from my mother, and they are a complex blend of her private and public selves.
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I don't mind being an only child; never have. I am lucky, though, that I have my friend Emily, who grew-up very close to me and so, there is someone I have shared memories with. I would miss that if I didn't have it, I think.
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But then I quite enjoy when something goes wrong, because when I watch DJs that take it very seriously, it's nice when you make a mistake and laugh about it.
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More than anything in this world, I wish I had been born rich. It would have made up for everything. I'd still be ugly, sure, but I'd be rich and ugly. I'd still be weak and dim and tongue-tied with women, but I'd be rich enough for them not to care. I'd no longer be a social misfit, I'd be eccentric. And most of all, I'd no longer be what I was, I'd be something different.
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Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science.
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I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
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Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.
