Quotes About Memory

Life was an uncertain thing, and there were some moments one wished to remember, to imprint upon one's mind that the memory might be taken out later, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, and admired and recollected anew. - Sophie and Gideon Lightwood

To my son, If you are reading this letter, then I am dead.

If you never tell anyone the truth about yourself, eventually you start to forget.

Being remembered, and remembered so kindly, touched him more than he would have thought possible.

Magnus had learned to be careful about giving his memories with his heart. When people died, it felt like all the pieces of yourself you had given to them went as well. It took so long, building yourself back up until you were whole again, and you were never entirely the same.

What's your name, then? "Tessa looked at him in disbelief. "What's my name?" "Don't you know it?

Clary?" Jace tilted his head to the side, studying her face. "You do—you still love me, don't you?" "I love Jace Lightwood," she said. "I don't know who you are.

I don't remember everything," he said. "Not yet. But I remember you." He brought her hand up, touched the gold ring on her right index finger, the Fair Folk metal warm to the touch. "Clary," he said. "You're Clary. You're my best friend.

Their beauty had always seemed to him like the beauty of pressed flowers-lovely, but dead.

Not my favourite topic, Smedley." "Simon," said Simon. "if I'm going to die for you all, the least you could do is remember my name."......... "Alright, everybody. Get over here. Sheldon's had an idea." "Who's Sheldon?" Said Isabelle.

But the soul, the spirit that made her Livvy was no longer there: It was something that had gone away to a far and untouchable place, even as Julian ran his hands over her hair again and again and begged her to wake up and look at him just one more time. High above the Council Hall, the golden clock began to chime the hour.

One of the most painful aspects of the war was that the bereaved were left without a body to bury. Almost half the British dead were posted Missing, leaving their families with the agonized hope that they might one day return – alternating with the bitter knowledge that their remains were lost in the mud of France.

She turned her face to touch her lips to his neck. "Make a memory with me, Hunter," she whispered huskily. "One more beautiful memory.

Reflection?" "Yes, he is his reflection." "The spittin' image of--What was your dead friend's name?" "It is not to be spoken. He is dead, no? To say his name would not show respect. What is this to do with spit?

She turned her face to touch her lips to his neck. "Make a memory with me, Hunter," she whispered huskily. "One more beautiful memory." Cinching an arm around her waist, Hunter stretched out with her on the fur. Never before had she initiated lovemaking. His hand trembled as he skimmed his palm down her spine. Make a memory with me, Hunter. As he dipped his head to kiss her, he wondered why it was that those words had a ring of farewell. One more beautiful memory.

Still trailing Amy, Loretta spotted Hunter the moment his horse drew out in front of the others. Heaving for air, she stumbled to a stop and glanced over her shoulder. Hunter, broad back to the wagons, sat tall on his stallion, waving his rifle above his head. As if in a dream, she whirled. The sight of Hunter making a target of himself would be painted in full color across the canvas of her mind for the rest of her life.

The wind brushed her cheeks, catching his name and carrying it away from her. She crossed her arms over her breasts and sobbed, her gaze fixed on the rise. She would never again look at the horizon without seeing him outlined there.

Speaking of pits in plum pudding, do you remember your sister's first attempt? Your grandfather broke off his only remaining tooth trying to eat it." "And swallowed tooth, pit and all, so he wouldn't embarrass her in front of Gray Horse, who had come to court her.

I like your face, Blue Eyes. It is carved upon my heart.

If her face was carved on his heart, his was carved on her soul.

The hysteric, whose body is transformed into a theatre for forgotten scenes, relives the past, bearing witness to a lost childhood that survived in suffering.

And so, now you know why I nearly ate you up the day you landed on the doorstep in the rain. I was lonely. I look back an' I know I've been lonely every day since Willie died. But from the minute you stepped into the kitchen, as I told you, me life seemed to change. Lad, if you walked out the morrow and I never saw you again, the memory of these last few weeks, waitin' for you comin

in at night, seein' you out in the mornin', the memory of that'll last me.' 'Oh, Bertha.' He leant forward

We're all feathers in the fire; time passes on us like a lick of flame, one minute we're there, the next we're gone, forgotten, as if we'd never been.