Childhood Memory Quotes

Quotes tagged as "childhood-memory" Showing 1-30 of 59
J.M. Barrie
“Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning. ”
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Lucy Christopher
“I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.”
Lucy Christopher, Stolen

Audrey Niffenegger
“one of the best and the most painful things about time traveling has been the opportunity to see my mother alive.”
Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife

Audrey Niffenegger
“I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories standing out.”
Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife

Samantha Young
"Mom, Arnie Welsh keeps calling me a geek. He says it like it's a bad thing. Is being a geek a bad thing?"

"Of course not, Soda Pop. And don't listen to labels. They don't matter."

"What are labels?"

"It's an imaginery sticker people slap on you with the word they think you are written on it. It doesn't matter who they think you are. It matters who you think you are."

"I think I might be a geek."

She laughed. "Then you be a geek. Just be whatever makes you happy, Soda Pop, and I'll be happy too.

Samantha Young, Before Jamaica Lane

Audrey Niffenegger
“I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room”
Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife

Sahara Sanders
“Do you remember the unbidden summer rain
Washing the dew from mulberries away?

Can you forget the scent of honey over fields,
And those amber-colored acorns beads…

And crowds of singing motley birds
Around the foggy, misty lake?

That’s where our childhood mirth
Will be remained as a fairy-tale…”
Sahara Sanders, Gods’ Food

“The fifties are a peaceful time, a quiet sleeping time between two noisy bursts of years, a blue and white time filled with sweet yellow days, music and bright smelling memories.”
David Gerrold, The Man Who Folded Himself

Lisa Kleypas
“You took it with good grace when you could have sliced him to ribbons with a few words."
"I was tempted," she admitted. "But I couldn't help remembering something Mother once said."
It had been on a long-ago morning in her childhood, when she and Gabriel had still needed books stacked on their chairs whenever they sat at the breakfast table. Their father had been reading a freshly ironed newspaper, while their mother, Evangeline, or Evie, as family and friends called her, fed spoonfuls of sweetened porridge to baby Raphael in his high chair.
After Phoebe had recounted some injustice done to her by a playmate, saying she wouldn't accept the girl's apology, her mother had persuaded her to reconsider for the sake of kindness.
"But she's a bad, selfish girl," Phoebe had said indignantly.
Evie's reply was gentle but matter-of-fact. "Kindness counts the most when it's given to people who don't deserve it."
"Does Gabriel have to be kind to everyone too?" Phoebe had demanded.
"Yes, darling."
"Does Father?"
"No, Redbird," her father had replied, his mouth twitching at the corners. "That's why I married your mother- she's kind enough for two people."
"Mother," Gabriel had asked hopefully, "could you be kind enough for three people?"
At that, their father had taken a sudden intense interest in his newspaper, lifting it in front of his face. A quiet wheeze emerged from behind it.
"I'm afraid not, dear," Evie had said gently, her eyes sparkling. "But I'm sure you and your sister can find a great deal of kindness in your own hearts."
Returning her thoughts to the present, Phoebe said, "Mother told us to be kind even to people who don't deserve it.”
Lisa Kleypas, Devil's Daughter

Hannah Tunnicliffe
“Ahead, a house sits close to the road: a small, single-story place painted mint green. Ivy grows up one corner and onto the roof, the green tendrils swaying like a girl's hair let loose from a braid. In front there's a full and busy vegetable garden, with plants jostling for real estate and bees making a steady, low, collective hum. It reminds me of the aunties' gardens, and my nonna's when I was a kid. Tomato plants twist gently skywards, their lazy stems tied to stakes. Leafy heads of herbs- dark parsley, fine-fuzzed purple sage, bright basil that the caterpillars love to punch holes in. Rows and rows of asparagus. Whoever lives here must work in the garden a lot. It's wild but abundant, and I know it takes a special vigilance to maintain a garden of this size.
The light wind lifts the hair from my neck and brings the smell of tomato stalks. The scent, green and full of promise, brings to mind a childhood memory- playing in Aunty Rosa's yard as Papa speaks with a cousin, someone from Italy. I am imagining families of fairies living in the berry bushes: making their clothes from spiderweb silk, flitting with wings that glimmer pink and green like dragonflies'.”
Hannah Tunnicliffe, Season of Salt and Honey

Jen Calonita
“If Snow kept weaving around the corners, she would reach the center of the maze and her mother's beloved aviary. The two-story wrought iron dome looked like a giant birdcage. It was her mother's pride and joy and the first thing she had commissioned when she became queen. She'd always had a love of birds. Snow's mother kept several species inside the netted walls, and she patiently explained each bird's nature to Snow in detail. The two had spent countless hours watching the aviary, with Snow naming all of the creatures inside it. Her favorite was Snowball, a small white canary.”
Jen Calonita, Mirror, Mirror

Jen Calonita
If the queen catches you in here again, Princess, she'll sentence you to do the dishes right alongside me! she heard another voice ring out.
No one was there, but Snow knew the voice. It was Mrs. Kindred, the cook who had survived her aunt's dismissals over the years. When Snow's mother was alive, she'd encouraged her daughter to be friendly with those who helped them in the castle, and Mrs. Kindred had always been Snow's favorite person to chat with. She could see herself sitting on a chair, no more than six or seven, watching Mrs. Kindred chop onions, carrots, and leeks and throw them all into a giant pot of broth. She and Mrs. Kindred only stole a few moments together most days now- she suspected her aunt must have forbidden the cook from talking to her, what with how Mrs. Kindred always quickly sent Snow on her way- but back then she had always peppered the cook with questions. ("How do you cut the carrots so small? Why do leeks have sand in them? What spices are you going to add? How do you know how much to put in?") On one such occasion, she'd been such a distraction that Mrs. Kindred had finally picked her up, holding her high on her broad chest, and let her stir the pot herself. Eventually, she taught her how to dice and chop, too, since Snow wouldn't stop talking. By suppertime, young Snow had convinced herself she'd made the whole meal. She had been proud, too, carrying the dishes out to the dining table that night.”
Jen Calonita, Mirror, Mirror

Jen Calonita
“Small acts of kindness are so important," she remembered her mother telling her as they had pulled away. "I once stood in the same spot she is now. I came from nothing."
"I don't know what I'd do if I had nothing," Snow recalled saying.
Her mother had lifted Snow's chin and looked her straight in the eye. "If that day ever comes, are you going to give up? No. You will carry on just as I did. I didn't give up, and someone took a chance on me." She straightened and leveled her gaze on young Snow. "Always remember your past, Snow, and let it help you make decisions on how to rule your future. But never, ever give up.”
Jen Calonita, Mirror, Mirror

Elizabeth Hoyt
“I'd take her to the top of the widow's tower at Ainsdale Castle, late at night, and we'd watch the moon rise. The widow's tower was very high but she wasn't afraid. Sometimes I'd steal a pie from the kitchens and we'd picnic up there. I brought up a blanket, too, so she wouldn't have to sit on the bare stone floor."
Mrs. Crumb made an aborted movement, as if she'd meant to turn to face him and then changed her mind.
He let the wineglass dangle by his side. "I told her a rabbit lived on the moon and she believed me. She believed everything I told her then."
"What rabbit?"
"There." He roused himself, straightening.
He drew back, fitting her against his chest and setting his chin on her shoulder. She smelled of tea and housekeeperly things, and she was warm, so warm. He caught up her right hand in his and traced the moon with it. "D'you see? There are the long ears, there the tail, there the forepaws, there the back."
"I see," she whispered.
"I told her the rabbit had lavender fur and ate pink moon clover up there." His mouth twisted, as he remembered. "She'd watch me with big blue eyes, her mouth half-open, a bit of piecrust on her dress. She hung on every word."
He could hear her breath, could feel the tremble of her limbs. Did she fear him?
"D'you believe me?" he asked against her ear, his lips wet with wine. She was a housekeeper and housekeepers didn't matter in the grand schemes of kings and dukes and little girls who wished upon rabbit moons.
But she was silent, damnable housekeeper.
They breathed together for a moment, there in the night air, London twinkling before them, overhung by a pagan moon.
At last she stirred and asked, "What happened to the girl?"
He broke away from her, draining his glass of wine. "She grew up and knew me for a liar.”
Elizabeth Hoyt, Duke of Sin

Jen Calonita
“For a split second, Elsa recalled a new memory of her younger self. She was building a snowman with another girl. They pulled the snowman around the room laughing. It was clear they loved each other. Her hands started to tingle in an unfamiliar way- they were warm- then the sensation was gone and she was left with a sharp headache.
What was that? she wondered. The girl had to be in her imagination. She had never used magic before that week. Had she?
Elsa stood up, her legs shaking. She held on to her bed frame to keep from falling. Heart pounding, fingers aching, she closed her eyes again and tried to remember the love she had just felt coursing through her veins. The emotion was stronger than fear. This feeling had come from building something out of love- a snowman for the two girls to enjoy.”
Jen Calonita, Conceal, Don't Feel

Jen Calonita
“This looks wonderful, girls," Mama said. "Your father is going to be so surprised. You know how much he loves your krumkaker."
"Crumbs cake-r." Anna tried hard to say the word, but she never could. "Crumb cake?"
Mama and Elsa laughed.
"Krumkaker," Mama said, the word rolling off her tongue smoothly. "I've been using this recipe since I was your age. I used to bake these with my best friend."
"That's where you learned to bake with love," Anna said.
"Yes, I did," Mama agreed, fixing Anna's right pigtail.”
Jen Calonita, Conceal, Don't Feel

Alejandra Pizarnik
“The beauty of my bleak childhood, the unforgivable sadness shared by dolls and statues - voiceless objects suitable for the double monologue between myself and the luxurious lair I live in, the pirate treasure buried in my first-person singular.”
Alejandra Pizarnik

Theodore Roethke
“Child On Top Of A Greenhouse

The wind billowing out the seat of my britches,
My feet crackling splinters of glass and dried putty,
The half-grown chrysanthemums staring up like accusers,
Up through the streaked glass, flashing with sunlight,
A few white clouds all rushing eastward,
A line of elms plunging and tossing like horses,
And everyone, everyone pointing up and shouting!”
Theodore Roethke

Sam Savage
“At meals Mama and Papa would observe each other from opposite ends of the long table, and Mama's grey eyes would fly angry silences at Papa, who would catch them in his enormous mustache. Their marriage was a tall column of pain, like a fluted vase. Balanced precariously on the fricative point at which Mama's personality met Papa's chin, it was always about to fall over and smash.”
Sam Savage, Glass

Joanne Harris
“My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing: Bitter orange cracknell. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat à croquer, fifteen percent cocoa solids- twenty for the dark- with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Süchard from the supermarket, but at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside.... There are layers of flavor like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavor to life, and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus that has me moaning.”
Joanne Harris, Chocolat

As was Isshiki family custom, I moved in with the closest host family to train. It was true that the girl I met there was not necessarily talented as I was...
... but she took great pride in learning her skills, one by one...
... working on them with joyous enthusiasm. Watching her from the sidelines...
... she looked beautiful to me.
It was only by watching over her shoulder...
... that it occurred to me that cooking could be fun.
... that there could be joy in learning skills that could bring happiness to others. The girl who taught me that...

... was you, Nene Kinokuni.
I have the utmost respect for you.
You looked so beautiful back then, learning how you did and having fun doing it.
If I had one wish, it'd be for you to remember how that felt.”
Yuto Tsukuda, 食戟のソーマ 29 [Shokugeki no Souma 29]

Stewart Stafford
“One Christmas Eve in my childhood, my dad asked if I wanted to leave alcohol out for Santa. I agreed but said to only leave a little as I was afraid I'd wake up on Christmas morning and see Santa drunkenly circling over our house in his sleigh.”
Stewart Stafford

Elizabeth Lim
“Tonight, you'll show them you're as lovely as your name."
You're as lovely as your name, Cinderella echoed in her thoughts.
It was almost like something her father had said once, when Drizella and Anastasia first made fun of her name.
Your name is lovely, he'd chided her, just like you. Do you want me to call you Ella?
No, Papa. I like Cinderella.
Then ignore them. You're stronger than that, my darling.

Elizabeth Lim, So This is Love

Liz Braswell
“A momentary feeling overcame her. It wasn't sadness exactly. But it wasn't just nostalgia, either. There was a golden drop of happiness in the feeling, whatever it was, as warming and delightful as sunlight. A memory of old dreams that had worn thin like the comfiest pillowcase one couldn't bear to throw out.
The details had dimmed long ago but the feelings remained: adventure, magic, fascinating creatures.”
Liz Braswell, Unbirthday

“Our earliest memory of our Self is pure beauty.”
Bert McCoy

Samantha Verant
“I recalled the time he tricked me into eating a live snail, explaining that snails were a delicacy in France, and if I were to develop a true palate, I had to eat one. It wasn't until later that I learned they were, indeed, delicious, but one didn't just pick up a snail from the garden and put a dash of salt on it. Snails we're eaten after a long curing process and served after they were baked in loads of butter, garlic, and parsley- les escargots de Bourgogne.”
Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

Brianne Moore
“Before we do anything, here's the first lesson in dessert making: don't stint on any of the good stuff. Fill it up with butter, and cream, and sugar, and fruit. All the things we want loads of but really shouldn't have. It should feel decadent."
That's her grandfather talking, of course: "Pudding is an indulgence; it should feel like it," he used to say. She could recall one day, in the kitchen of their house in London, when she was maybe nine or ten, helping her mother frost a birthday cake for one of her sisters (Meg, surely; Julia had given up cake, by that point). Elliott sat on a stool at the kitchen island, watching them, guiding Susan's technique: "Take off just enough of the frosting to give a smooth appearance, but don't scrape it all off. The whole point of cake is the frosting, isn't it? You don't want a bare cake."
"Julia would," Susan commented with a wry smile.
"Julia doesn't appreciate things like this" was Elliott's response.
"Now, now," Susan's mother gently remonstrated with a warning look at her father-in-law.
"Well, I worry about Julia," he said. "If you can't indulge in a little cake now and again, what sort of joy do you have in your life? Can you indulge in anything? And yes, cake is an indulgence. You don't need it, but you want it. It should feel celebratory and just a little delightfully naughty when you have it. It's the same with any dessert.”
Brianne Moore, All Stirred Up

Rachel Yoder
“It had been so long since she had remembered all this, so long since she'd even thought of it, for there had been a great forgetting when she left home--a purposeful forgetting, because to forget her childhood meant she had survived it.”
Rachel Yoder, Nightbitch

Arlene Stafford-Wilson
“With school over for the year, and days that stretched as long as our country lane-ways, we enjoyed a pure and joyful freedom, an elusive state of complete happiness, one that some would fail to recapture, ever again, in our all-too-brief time on this Earth.”
Arlene Stafford-Wilson, Lanark County Comfort

Lisa Kleypas
“After you told me about the shirt cuff, I told you about the time I spilled ink on a map in my father's study."
He shook his head, baffled.
"It was a rare two-hundred-year-old map of the British Isles," Merritt explained. "I'd gone into my father's study to play with a set of inkwell bottles, which I'd been told not to do. But they were such tempting little etched glass bottles, and one of them was filled with the most resplendent shade of emerald green you've ever seen. I dipped a pen in it, and accidentally dribbled some onto the map, which had been spread out on his desk. It made a horrid splotch right in the middle of the Oceanus Germanicus. I was standing there, weeping with shame, when Papa walked in and saw what had happened."
"What did he do?" Keir asked, now looking interested.
"He was quiet at first. Waging a desperate battle with his temper, I'm sure. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he said in a thoughtful tone, 'Merritt, I suspect if you drew some legs on that blotch, it would make an excellent sea monster.' So I added little tentacles and fangs, and I drew a three-masted ship nearby." She paused at the flash of Keir's grin, the one that never failed to make her a bit light-headed. "He had it framed and hung it on the wall over his desk. To this day, he claims it's his favorite work of art."
Amusement tugged at one corner of his mouth. "A good father," he commented.”
Lisa Kleypas, Devil in Disguise

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