“My earliest memory is seeing Michael Jackson in Melbourne with my sister when I was about ten. I still have this souvenir stick with a glove that would light up and make a peace sign in a bunch of different colors. I'm so happy my mom didn't throw that out.” StillsDifferentLightMemoriesSeeingColorMomTenSticksMy MomBunchMy SisterGlovesLight UpSouvenirsDifferent ColorsMelbournePeace Sign Author:Emilie de Ravin
“The trout that seem to stick in my memory the finest aren't the big ones, and maybe it's because I have't visited all the corners of the globe, but my most unforgettable trout all lived close to home. In fact, when I take out my pouch of trout memories and spill them all on the table, it seems that the smaller ones shine the brightest.” FactsHomeBigsSeemsMemoriesSeaRiversTablesShiningSticksFishesCornersBoatLakesFishingGlobesFinestSpillsTroutUnforgettable Author:William G. Tapply
“In the name of Jerusalem. If I forget the extermination of the Jews, may my right hand wither, may my tongue stick to my palate if I cease to think of you, if I do not keep the extermination of the Jews in memory even at my happiest hour.” IfsThinkingMayHandsNamesHoursMemoriesForgetSticksJewTongueCeaseThink Of YouJerusalemPalateExtermination Author:Menachem Begin
“Any young boy can nowadays explain human flight - mechanistically: " ... and to climb you shove the throttle all the way forward and pull back just a little on the stick. ... " One might as well explain music by saying that the further over to the right you hit the piano the higher it will sound. The makings of a flight are not in the levers, wheels, and pedals but in the nervous system of the pilot: physical sensations, bits of textbook, deep-rooted instincts, burnt-child memories of trouble aloft, hangar talk.” WayHumansWellsChildrenLittlesMightYoungBitsSoundMemoriesBoysTroubleHigherSticksInstinctFlightNervousPianoWheelsClimbsAviationSensationsPilotsRootedTextbooksNervous SystemLeversPedalsWay ForwardThrottle Author:Wolfgang Langewiesche
“I have very vivid memories of being a young child. My mother would create dinner as for us, and when she would bake, she would leave some dough for me. I would roll the dough into little sticks while she was cooking the apple tart of whatever. I was looking through the window of the oven and flipping the light, and then my bread would come out, and it was inedible, of course.” ChildrenLittlesLightYoungMotherCoursesMemoriesWindowCookingSticksDinnerBreadApplesVividYoung ChildrenOvensDoughTartsVivid Memories Author:Eric Ripert