Quotes About Memory

Dicen que perder la memoria es como volver a nacer. Olvidas tu pasado y comienzas a construirte otra vida, otra historia, otra identidad. Puede que incluso con un carácter y una forma de ser diferentes, pese a que conserves, en mayor o menor grado, el recuerdo de las emociones vividas.

pero nunca olvido una voz por mucho que cambie, y por muchos años que pasen. Una voz siempre tiene algo, un timbre, un tono, que la define como única.

Mientras no seas capaz de mirar al pasado sin dolor, nunca te forjarás una nueva identidad y un destino diferente».

El aire es una biblioteca y registro de todas las vidas vividas, de todas las frases dichas, de todas las palabras que aún reverberan.

In keeping with the American effort to reconcile with Japan, all of them, including those serving life sentences, would soon be paroled. It appears that even Sueharu Kitamura, "the Quack," was set free, in spite of his death sentence. By 1958, every war criminal who had not been executed would be free, and on December 30 of that year, all would be granted amnesty. Sugamo would be torn down, and the epic ordeals of POWs in Japan would fade from the world's memory.

Louie, declared dead more than sixty years earlier, would outlive them all.

Remember me with smiles and laughter, for that is how I will remember you all. If you can only remember me with tears, then don't remember me at all.

If my response seems slow when asked a question, I always explain: 'It is because I have numerous files and subfiles to sort through in order to retrieve the info . . . please stand by. Help . . . my computer needs more memory!

She wrote to make vivid what lay beyond her, whether in the past or the future, to make articulate that imaginative amalgam of wish and memory, to make the lost laugh once more.

The first shot causes warm rain to fall on Diana's arms from the sky. The second plants a mirrored jewel in the left temporal lobe of her brain…a place she could have named on a quiz but which now seems to be the place where the future is imagined, the place where what would have been is.

And all the embezzled cents and dollars of the last time I saw you.

and the stones, bewitched, can see: The lost hours and into the past.

And the box inside him in which his mother resides is velvet and black and without size.

I was there, where the pale words, like light on a wave. Where the forgotten music was still played. The lovers, gone. Their beds unmade.

And this last second or two of dreaming in which your face returns to me completely. Not even needing to be, being so alive again to me.

My memory of your casual smile This memory, like a child's bit of sweet embroidery smuggled out of an asylum

I am sixteen when my mother steps out of her skin one frozen January afternoon- pure self, atoms twinkling like microscopic diamond chips around her, perhaps the chiming of a clock, or a few bright flute notes in the distance- and disappears. No one sees her leave, but she is gone.

I can't think of anything worse after a night of drinking than waking up next to someone and not being able to remember their name, or how you met, or why they're dead.

When she turned at the sound of his calling her name, he felt the world tilt a little sideways, and he knew that even if a decade passed before he saw her again, he would still remember every detail of her face—the exact blue of her eyes and the luminous glow of her skin and the delicate arch of her brow. Worse, he suspected he'd still feel the same sensations a decade from now—a dry throat, a pounding heart, and an inability to say a single word.

Ten years. Ten years. Rachel missed her father every day. Not consciously, but his absence was a part of her, like a vine that wraps around a structure, sustains it even as it weakens it.

How we treat our dead is central to our humanity.

But she was Barbara Monroe, of Chicago, Illinois. She had attended a big-city high school, Mather. A big school in a big city was easier to fake than a small one, because anyone could be forgotten in a big school.

feeding her raw oysters at Charleston, or sharing the gingerbread with lemon chiffon sauce at Bicycle.

He was gone. Kiss