Quotes About Memory

Sometimes, I don't know that words for things, how to write down the feeling of knowing that every dying person leaves something behind.

Somewhere in my brain each laugh, tear and lullaby becomes memory .

Jacquelyn Mitchard

The lie is the future, one may venture to say [...]. To tell the truth is, on the contrary, to say what is or what will have been and it would instead prefer the past.

I'm in favor or tradition. I'm respectful of and a lover of the tradition. There's no deconstruction without the memory of the tradition.

La parte de tu muerte que me doy, la parte de tu muerte que yo puse de mi cosecha, cómo poder pagártela… Ni la parte de vida que tuvimos juntos.

Mi amor, íntegra imagen de mi vida, sol de las noches mismas que le robo. Su juventud, la mía, —música de mi fondo— sonríe aún en la imprecisa gracia de cada cuerpo joven, en cada encuentro anónimo, iluminándolo. Dándole un alma. Y no hay muslos hermosos que no me hagan pensar en sus hermosos muslos cuando nos conocimos, antes de ir a la cama.

Que aunque el gusto nunca más vuelve a ser el mismo, en la vida los olvidos no suelen durar.

This is the greatest evil that grows out of a wrong act. Somebody always remembers it Ã¢â'¬Â¦ in an evil way.

The great writers, Conrad, Maugham and Melville, spent only a few years in the South Seas, but their memory of those waters was indestructible; for the nature of life in the islands commands attention to the vivid world and its even more vivid inhabitants.

I am sure old men forget what it was to be young and to be wholly in love. Not even I can remember those breathless moments. That's why they give old men important jobs and big salaries and orchestras to lead. To pay us back for the terrible loss we have sustained.

Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it... but those who remember the future can plan ahead for the weather.

Aceia care uit? trecutul sunt blestema?i s?-l repete, dar cei care-?i amintesc viitorul pot s? se preg?teasc? pentru orice."

Kamal's excellent book close this chapter: If a painful memory arises, don't fight it or try to push it away—you're in quicksand. Struggle reinforces pain. Instead, go to love. Love for yourself. Feel it. If you have to fake it, fine. It'll become real eventually. Feel the love for yourself as the memory ebbs and flows. That will take the power away.

People who remember court madness through pain, the pain of the perpetually recurring death of their innocence; people who forget court another kind of madness, the madness of the denial of pain and the hatred of innocence; and the world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget.

The great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all that we do.

I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.

After departure, only invisible things are left, perhaps the life of the world is held together by invisible chains of memory and loss and love. So many things, so many people, depart! And we can only repossess them in our minds.

I scarcely know how to describe that room. It became, in a way, every room I had ever been in and every room I find myself in hereafter will remind me of Giovanni's room.

The menfolk, they die, all right. And it's us women who walk around, like the Bible says, and mourn. The menfolk, they die, and it's over for them, but we women, we have to keep on living and try to forget what they done to us.

Oedipus did not remember the thongs that bound his feet; nevertheless the marks they left testified to that doom toward which his feet were leading him. The man does not remember the hand that struck him, the darkness that frightened him, as a child; nevertheless, the hand and the darkness remain with him, indivisible from himself forever, part of the passion that drives him wherever he thinks to take flight.

The first love disappears, but never goes. That ache becomes reconciliation.

The world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes are rare.

On each piece of paper I found addresses, telephone numbers, memos of various rendezvous made and kept—or perhaps not kept—people met and remembered, or perhaps not remembered, hopes probably not fulfilled: certainly not fulfilled, or I would not have been standing on that street corner.