Quotes About Memory

Sola yo, amor, y vos quién sabe dónde; tu recuerdo me mece como al maíz el viento y te traigo en el tiempo, recorro los caminos, me río a carcajadas y somos los dos juntos otra vez, junto al agua.

Per me, non meno che per lei, più del presente contava il passato, più del possesso il ricordarsene. Di fronte alla memoria, ogni possesso non può apparire che delusivo, banale, insufficiente...Come mi capiva! La mia ansia che il presente diventasse "subito" passato perché potessi amarlo e vagheggiarlo a mio agio era anche sua, tale e quale. Era il "nostro" vizio, questo: d'andare avanti con le teste sempre voltate all'indietro.

Lui sa che lo ami?» «Lo saprà. Glielo dimostrerò ogni giorno finché riuscirà a non scordarlo mai.»

Ancora buio. Poi, poco per volta, il risveglio portò il ricordo e il ricordo la maledizione del risveglio.

Para comprender a un gran hombre, es preciso referirse, necesariamente, al día de su muerte.

When I was young I read almost always to learn; Today, sometimes, I read to forget.

ché i giovani hanno la memoria corta, e hanno gli occhi per guardare soltanto a levante; e a ponente non ci guardano altro che i vecchi, quelli che hanno visto tramontare il sole tante volte.

Ci sono cose, pensò, che i nostri occhi guardano senza vedere, ma il subconscio le vede e le nota. Il subcosciente ha l'occhio della macchina fotografica e non gli sfugge niente. Tanto è vero che, alle volte, dopo un sacco di tempo ci ricordiamo di aver visto un particolare che non sapevamo di aver visto.

You cannot engrave on water nor wound it with a knife, which is why the river has no fear of memories.

He would not want to sound like a haunted man; he would not want to sound as though he was calling from a welfare hotel, years too late, to say Yes, that was a baby we had together, it would have been a baby. For he could not help now but recall the doctor explaining about that child, a boy, who had appeared so mysteriously perfect in the ultrasound. Transparent, he had looked, and gelatinous, all soft head and quick heart; but he would have, in being born, broken every bone in his body.

Lembra-se desse filme? Eu aquiesci com o ar vagamente culpado de quem prometera várias vezes vê-lo, sem jamais encontrar força para o fazer.

Sleep is the price we pay for learning

He rests in the graveyard of Ivry a suburb that always looks like the day the carnival comes down. And perhaps only I still know that he was alive".

Di me ricordo solo che esultavo amandoti.

I'm in the kitchen. You are three days dead. A smiling moon rises on fertile ground, White stars and vegetables. The sky is blue. Clock hands sweep by it all, they twirl around, Pushing me, oarless, from the shore of you.

In the night, when the wind dies and silence rules the place of glittering stone, I remember. And they all live again.

I can laugh at peasants and townies chained all their lives to a tiny corner of the earth while I roam its face and see its wonders, but when I go down, there will be no child to carry my name, no family to mourn me save my comrades, no one to remember, no one to raise a marker over my cold bit of ground.

Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels' recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche's ghostly script?

She turned towards me, put her fingertips against my chest. She was enjoying it somewhat, too, the little betrayal of Mark's memory. She still loved him, differently; now and again there must be these retrospective cruelties, to consolidate her newness, to let her not love him in the old way.

For almost a decade I was haunted by the memory of Deborah Black, I was about to claim. But the memory didn't haunt me; I haunted the memory. Went to it, at night or in the deadened hours of empty afternoons, woke it up, reminded it of all the fun we'd had, made it do things with me.

Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels' recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche's ghostly script?)

I did not know death then, that he is no more to be feared than the man on the black horse. He can be kind, time teaches us. He will lend a hand. Grace is his comrade, memory his foe. In the end he prevails, but triumphs not, so long as we remember.

Roy G. Biv" to remember the colors and she made up a rhyme: A rainbow is named Roy G. Biv To remember the colors and the joy they give.

Why do some details become "history"—included in schoolbooks, in scholarly dissertations, or in personal narratives—while other details are forgotten? What scale of information do we accept when we say that we know something about the past?