I remember.

I am remembering the word.

I am remembering their addresses.

to retrieve all the moments,

I remember my mother when I see this.

I recall my childhood with pleasure.

Fifth Man The first thing I remember ...

I remember meeting him in Paris.

I remember the happy days we spent together.

I recall feeling so good at that time.

I frequently recall my happy childhood.

I mention in my book, They Call Me Coach.

I remember seeing you last year.

I recall less and less of my childhood.

I still think about her from time to time.

Whenever I hear that song, I remember my youth.

Now that I see these pictures, I remember.

Each time I see this picture, I remember my father.

When I hear that song I remember my youth.

Every time I see it, I remember him.

They remind me of how my mother raised me.

When I see this picture, I'm reminded of our holiday.

When I hear that song, I remember my younger days.

Every day I remember what the city was like, and the war.

When I look of this photo I remember my family.

I remember my image of you was that you were up on the shore yelling at me.

I recall negotiations with my Chinese counterpart when I was Governor of Hong Kong.

Every time I see this picture, I remember my father.

I appeal to my ancestry only in one single case when I encounter an anti Semite.

Now when I look back, the transplant was actually the easiest part.

Now that years have passed, when I remember it, I am surprised that it could have grieved me so much.

When I think back on what I did, I feel pretty stupid.

I recall now only the first hushed, frightened whispers of disaster from a family friend.

I can still see Hillary doing the shots of rye, dribbling down her chin, with the steel workers.

Well I think back to my childhood, a good part of which I spent, after being born here in Chicago, I spent in Europe.

He still made me cry with laughter on those nights.

I am looking down on Central Park and recall from half a century ago in a small town in Northern Romania a tall, white haired man proclaiming his poem, The Colors Red and Black. Gazing over the park, I remember those Stalinist era verses

I see and hear Bronek in Castel Gandolfo, addressing Pope John Paul II.

I think of Shakespeare's Shylock If you prick us, do we not bleed, and if you tickle us, do we not laugh?

This is the only thing that goes through my head over and over again when I remember the little girl that was torn into pieces.

And I remember an exhibition design I made for John Maeda, and for the Foundation Cartier in Paris.

And I remember instantly I am in Germany in this I had to go for a one day trip.

I see him also during underground meetings of Solidarity and during the 1989 Round Table negotiations

Just remembering when I first encountered your splendid creations as a child, my appreciation for you has been rekindled.

Sitting in my studio in Boston reflecting on the last four days in Sarajevo one of the most emotional experiences I think I have ever had.