Quotes About Memory

It would fill her heart to see you all here, to know you'd given up time, with all you have to do, to remember her. To say goodbye. She said to me once that she felt like she'd been nothing, a reflection of other people. She never quite understood her own worth. I hope she's looking down now and knows . . . finally . . . how loved she was.

More and more, though, those memories felt manufactured, false. She couldn't remember the last time her mother laughed about anything. All Mom did was work. Work, work, work. As if that would save them.

I know what it is like; some images, once seen, can never be forgotten.

The waters of the past were as cold as she'd expected, even in the heat of this gorgeous summer morning.

In the years that she had been tying scraps to the branches, the tree had died and the fruit had turned bitter. The other apple trees were hale and healthy, but this one, the tree of her remembrances, was as black and twisted as the bombed-out town behind it.

It's not forgetting that we need Vianne, it's remembering.

Like geese," she whispered into the tiny, shell-pink ear, "their babies imprint on the mama in the first sighting and never forget.

Vianne knelt down beside Sarah, she felt for a pulse and found none. The silence turned sour, thick; all Vianne could think about was the sound of this child's laughter and how empty the world would be without it.

How will I stop loving him, Mama? Will I Ã¢â'¬Â¦ forget?" Mama sighed. "Ah. That. Love doesn't fade or die, baby girl. People tell you it does, but it doesn't. If you love him now, you'll love him in ten years and in forty. Differently, maybe, a faded version, but he's part of you now. And you are part of him.

An even worse memory followed: Gaëtan. He had abandoned her after all; it filled her with the kind of bone-deep disappointment she knew so well.

This is how my love for her goes on: in moments remembered and moments imagined. It's how I keep her alive. Hers is the voice in my head, in my conscience. I see the world, at least in part, through her eyes. Her story-which is the story of a time and land and the indomitable will of a people- is my story; two lives woven together, and like any good story, ours will begin and end and begin again.

It was strange how you could stop seeing people who were right beside you, how images stuck in your head.

He'd never thought much about silence, but now he knew its every shape and contour. It was a cheap glass jar that trapped old voices and kept them fresh.

I close my eyes and in the darkness that smells of mildew and bygone lives, my mind casts back, a line thrown across years and continents.

Geriye ne kalm??t? ki? Her 'merhaba', 'hoÅŸça kal' anlam?na geliyordu.

Antoine took her in his arms. The scent of jasmine was intoxicating, and she knew suddenly, certainly, that from now on, whenever she smelled jasmine, she would remember this good-bye.

My childhood, I thought naively, was mine alone, those memories painted in vibrant oil strokes on the canvas of my years.

To pick up a pen and write down her life, she'd have to remember it all, who she was, who she'd wanted to be. Those memories would be painful, both the good and the bad would wound her.

Oradour-sur-Glane —no lejos de Carriveau— y habían conducido a sus habitantes a punta de fusil hasta la iglesia, supuestamente para comprobar su documentación.

Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not; rather find strength in what remains behind. —WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

He wanted to tell her that when he painted, he felt her, remembered her, that it had started in rehab as occupational therapy and now it was his passion.

We remember the missing as much as the lost.

I will tell my son my life story at last. There will be pain in remembering, but there will be joy, too.

I look like any other girl my age, but I am different from most. A survivor. There is no way to forget what we went through in the Great Depression or to unlearn the lessons of hardship. Even though I am only eighteen, I remember my childhood as a time of loss.