Quotes About Memory

Things, once gone, can't be put back; he knew that now. A punch, once delivered, can't be withdrawn. Words, once spoken, can't be unsaid. We may go on as if nothing has been lost, nothing done, nothing said; we may claim to forget it all; but our innermost core doesn't forget, because we have been changed for ever.

How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but – mainly – to ourselves. Dear

The bitch, I thought. If there was one woman in the entire world a man could fall in love with and still think life worth refusing, it was Veronica.

I thought—at some level of my being, I actually thought—that I could go back to the beginning and change things. That I could make the blood flow backwards. I had the vanity to imagine—even if I didn't put it more strongly than this—that I could make Veronica like me again, and that it was important to do so.

The past is the present's toy and plaything, gratifyingly unable to answer back.

Vivimos como si la memoria fuese una consigna de equipajes bien construida y atendida por un personal eficiente.

Dingen die eenmaal weg zijn, kunnen niet teruggehaald worden, dat wist hij nu wel. Een klap, eenmaal uitgedeeld, kan niet worden ingetrokken. Woorden, eenmaal uitgesproken, kunnen niet onuitgesproken worden gemaakt. We mogen verdergaan alsof er niets verloren, niets gedaan, niets gezegd is, we mogen beweren het allemaal te vergeten, maar ons diepste wezen vergeet niet, omdat we voor altijd veranderd zijn.

He died little more than a hundred years ago, and all that remains of him is paper. Paper, ideas, phrases, metaphors, structured prose which turns into sound.

Tai, kÄ… galiausiai prisimeni, ne visada yra tas pats, kÄ… patyrei

Photographs were useful, but somehow always confirmed the memory rather than liberating it.

I replayed the words that would forever haunt me. As would Adrian's unfinished sentence: 'So, for instance, if Tony . . .' I knew I couldn't change, or mend, anything now.

Vieni jausmai laik? pagreitina, kiti sul?tina, o kartais atrodo, kad jis dingsta - kol galop ateina akimirka, kai jis iš ties? dingsta ir jau niekada nebesugr?žta

Ma se nostalgia significa il ricordo potente di un'emozione forte, e il rimpianto di non ritrovare più sensazioni del genere nella vita, allora mi dichiaro colpevole. da Il senso di una fine

But here's the first problem. If this is your only story, then it's the one you have most often told and retold, even if—as is the case here—mainly to yourself. The question then is: Do all these retellings bring you closer to the truth of what happened, or move you further away? I'm not sure.

You're still in it. You'll always be in it. No, not literally. But in your heart. Nothing ever ends, not if it's gone that deep. You'll always be walking wounded. That's the only choice, after a while. Walking wounded, or dead. Don't you agree?

I keep alive our lost private language.

Don't think ill of me, remember me well. Tell people you were fond of me, that you loved me, that I wasn't a bad guy. Even if, perhaps, none of this was the case.

Which are truer, the happy memories, or the unhappy ones? He decided, eventually, that the question was unanswerable.

This last isn't something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed.

And if that was so, then perhaps the argument could be extended. For example, to say that you had once been happy, and to believe what you were saying, was the same as actually to have been happy. Could that be true? No, that was surely specious. On the other hand, the emotional record was not like a history book; its truths were constantly changing, and true even when incompatible.

even if he did sometimes flirt lightly with Betty of Betty's Best Home-Made Pies. It passed the time. Ah, that phrase. A sudden memory of Susan talking about Joan. "We're all just looking for a place of safety. And if you don't find one, then you have to learn how to pass the time." Back then, it had sounded like a counsel of despair; now, it struck him as normal, and emotionally practical.

And while he was tormenting himself, here was a question he would often arrive at when his mind followed a particular trail of memory. Handing back Susan had been an act of self-protection on his part. There was no doubt about that; and no doubt in his mind that he had to do it. But beyond this, was it an act of courage, or of cowardice? And if he couldn't decide, perhaps the answer was: both.

So now he better understood how couples clung to their own story—each, often, to a separate part of it—long after it had gone cold on them, even to the point where they were not sure they could bear one another. Bad love still contained the remnant, the memory, of good love—somewhere, deep down, where neither of them any longer wanted to dig.

Jenže vzpomínky, které nám nakonec z?stanou, se pÃ…â"¢ece pokaždé neshodují s tím, co jsme vidÄ›li na vlastní o?i.