Quotes About Memory

Keep a notebook. Travel with it, eat with it, sleep with it. Slap into it every stray thought that flutters up in your brain. Cheap paper is less perishable than gray matter, and lead pencil markings endure longer than memory.

And never forget, Michael said, time travelers never die. No matter what you saw up ahead, about me, I'll always be here.

We lost the wild bit by bit for ten thousand years and forgave each loss and then forgot.

What great minds lie in the dust," said Guyal in a low voice. "What gorgeous souls have vanished into the buried ages; what marvellous creatures are lost past the remotest memory … Nevermore will there be the like; now in the last fleeting moments, humanity festers rich as rotten fruit. Rather than master and overpower our world, our highest aim is to cheat it through sorcery.

I think we've met?" His voice was soft, sardonic. "Your name evades me," said Gersen politely. "I am Suthiro, Sivij Suthiro.

Truth can be forgotten, misplaced, or lost, but never annihilated. The human hand might erase the words, mutilate the manuscript, or chisel off a name, but that only alters memory. Such vandalism tampers with the evidence without altering the facts. Cutting part of a document still leaves an outline of what was removed, a silhouette of the missing piece.

I would that I could have stopped time and preserved that day forever. It was a perfect day. There was the shadow of sorrow, yes. It would always be there. But that was the nature of life. The bright mirror and the dark, reflecting one another. And today there was so much brightness.

Jehanne said that it would always be like this. That I would always be young and beautiful in her memory, and she in mine. That I would never grow resentful, never be tempted to betray her. That she would never grow restless and fickle, and see to replace me. So you see, not exactly the sentiments of a great and terrible love affair.

The defeated always remember.

I am reduced to calling a memory the sense of existing in the same place, with the same people and doing the same things (...) For a very long time, the days went by, each one just like the day before then I began to think, and everything changed. Before, nothing happened other than this repetition of identical gestures, and the time seemed to stand still, even if I was vaguely aware that I was growing and that time was passing. My memory begins with my anger.

We're never going to forget our sister Jodie.

Vicky's only been dead an hour and yet she's already a memory.

The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.

And I know only too well how time can cast a sort of skin over an event—a membrane that gets thicker until a point where broaching the subject is all but impossible, even when you think you can face the grief and terror once more.

Standing alongside a harp, she stretched out her hand and ran her fingers across the strings, the tumble of notes reminding her of a shower on a bright day, of primrose petals bending to the weight of raindrops. She regretted never having learned to play an instrument.

She enjoyed this benign memory; there were other strands of reflection reaching back over the years that were akin to electric cables, able to shock if touched. Those hot wires of remembrance were all around her.

Every boy had grown to manhood with a family of mother, father and village. A man and woman might have lost their son but they had also lost his best friend and the boys who had played football together in the street after school and cricket on the green in summer. "Who have we lost?" the words echoed in her ears.

We are all impacted by the events that will become history.

Yet, despite the pressures of being a sole proprietor, Maisie knew that the curtain of darkness from her past was lifting. Not that she forgot, not that she didn't still have nightmares or close her eyes and see images from the war in stark relief. But it was as if she were on firmer ground, and not at the mercy of memory's quicksand.

resembled photographs she had seen of Rudyard Kipling, when the newspapers published photographs of the author and his wife visiting the battlefields of northern France in search of their only son's final resting place.

Then as each month, each year passed, it was as if the memory of you - of us… the explosion - were encased in a fine tissue-paper.' … 'I felt as if I were looking through a window to my own past, and instead of being transparent, my view was becoming more and more opaque, until eventually the time had passed. The time for coming to see you had passed.

But on paper, things can live forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies.

I know now that what is tragic isn't the moment. It is the memory.

I wouldn't mind the early autumn if you came home today I'd tell you how much I miss you and know I'd be okay. It's funny how we never know exactly how our life will go It's funny how a dream can fade with the break of day. Time can't erase the memory and time can't bring you home Last Summer was a part of me and now a part is gone. —Margaret