Quotes About Memory

De vreme ce apariÈ›iile noastre, adic? partea din noi care apare, sunt atât de trec?toare, comparate cu cealalt?, partea nev?zut? din noi, care se întinde departe, înseamn? c? partea nev?zut? poate supravieÈ›ui, poate fi cumva recuperat?, ataÈ™at? unei persoane sau alteia, sau poate chiar bântui anumite locuri, dup? moarte.

These scenes, by the way, are not altogether a literary device - a means of summing up and making a knot of innumerable little threads. Innumerable threads were there; still, if I stopped to disentangle, I could collect a number. But whatever the reason may be, I find that scene making is my natural way of marking the past.

The red carnation that stood in the vase on the table of the restaurant when we dined together with Percival is become a six-sided flower; made of six lives

women live much more in the past than we do, he thought. They attach themselves to places; and their fathers – a woman's always proud of her father.

odd, he thought, how the thought of childhood keeps coming back to me. The result of seeing Clarissa, perhaps; for women live much more in the past than we do, he thought.

Pareva più il ricordo del dolore che il dolore stesso.

We saw for a moment laid out among us the body of the complete human being whom we have failed to be, but at the same time, cannot forget.

when the memoir writer has done his work upon it? For one thing, Orlando had a positive hatred of tea; for another, the intellect, divine as it is, and all-worshipful, has a habit of lodging in the most seedy of carcases, and often, alas, acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often, where the Mind is biggest, the Heart, the Senses, Magnanimity, Charity, Tolerance, Kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe.

Is it permissible even for a dying hero to think before he dies ow men will think of him hereafter. His fame lasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are two thousand years?

He remembered that, after digging for a little, the water oozes round your finger-tips; the hole then becomes a moat; a well; a spring; a secret channel to the sea.

But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms.

L'amore aveva migliaia di forme. Potevano esservi innamorati che avevano il dono di scegliere gli elementi delle cose e metterli insieme e così, dotandoli di una interezza che non possedevano nella realtà, fare di una scena, di un incontro tra persone (ora tutte svanite e separate), una sorta di globo compatto su cui il pensiero indugia, con cui l'amore gioca.

As a child he had walked in Regent's Park—odd, he thought, hope the thought of childhood keeps coming back to me—the result of seeing Clarissa, perhaps; for women live much more in the past than we do, he thought. They attach themselves to places: and their fathers—a woman's always proud of her father.

And as she lost consciousness of outer things, and her name and her personality and her appearance, and whether Mr. Carmichael was there or not, her mind kept throwing up from its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings, and memories and ideas, like a fountain spurting over that glaring, hideously difficult white space, while she modelled it with greens and blues.

They would, she thought, going on again, however long they lived, come back to this night; this moon; this wind; this house: and to her too. It flattered her, where she was most susceptible of flattery, to think how, wound about in their hearts, however long they lived she would be woven...

È che pensava a lei, la criticava, e di nuovo, dopo trent'anni, provava a spiegarsela.

she could not shake herself free from the sense that everything this morning was happening for the first time, perhaps for the last time, as a traveller, even though he is half asleep, knows, looking out of the train window, that he must look now, for he will never see that town, or that mule-cart, or that woman at work in the fields, again.

That she had grown older? Would he say that, or would she see him thinking when he came back, that she had grown older?

Perché se siamo sufficientemente decisi possiamo sbattere fuori casa questa sgualdrina, la Memoria, e tutte le sue carabattole.

acolo, de-a curmeziÈ™ul golfului È™i printre dune, z?cea prietenia lui, p?strîndu-È™i întreaga vitalitate È™i realitate, asemenea cadavrului unui tîn?r care ar fi r?mas îngropat un secol în turb?, conservîndu-È™i roÈ™eaÈ›a proasp?t? a buzelor.

GeçmiÅŸ güzeldir çünkü insan asla bir duyguyu yaÅŸad??? anda anlamaz. Duygu sonradan aç?l?p, geniÅŸler. Bu yüzden de ÅŸimdiyle ilgili tamama ermiÅŸ duygular?m?z yoktur, sadece geçmiÅŸle ilgili vard?r.

SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING Judith Barrington, Writing the Memoir: From Truth to Art; Annie Dillard and Cort Conley, eds., Modern American Memoirs; Patricia Hampl, I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourns in the Land of Memory; Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life; Phillip Lopate, ed., The Art of the Personal Essay; Jane Taylor McDonnell, Living to Tell the Tale: A Guide to Writing Memoir; and William Zinsser, ed., Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir.

with somebody's lost pair of sun-glasses for only witness.

I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.