Quotes About Memory

Margaret did not question; she understood this, how slippery and elastic time was in the fact of your child, how it seemed to move not in a line but in endless loops, circling back again and again, overwriting itself.

This was what would haunt Mrs. McCullough most: that Mirabelle hadn't cried out when Bebe had reached into the crib and lifted her up and taken her away.

The way he hadn't even glanced at them, as if he were focused on something far-off on the horizon or deep, deep in the past.

simply went on as if she'd never existed. As he stands there, he knows the photos

she returns in sudden flashes. Like scraps of half-remembered dreams.

he forgets her voice sometimes; when he tries to summon it, it slips away like a shadow dissolving in the dark.

It seemed as vague and hazy as something she had done in a dream.

e pegou no diário que a mãe lhe dera no Natal. Até que enfim acontecera algo importante, algo que devia registar. Mas não sabia como explicar o que se passara, como tudo mudara num único dia, como alguém que amava tanto podia estar ali num minuto e, no minuto seguinte ter desaparecido.

Still: she returns in sudden flashes. Like scraps of half-remembered dreams.

That evening, that sureness, feels ancient now, like something grown small with the distance of years.

Memory, come tell a fairy tale About my girl who's lost and gone. Tell, tell about the golden grail And bid the swallow, bring her back to me. Fly close to her and ask her soft and low If she thinks of me sometimes with love, If she is well? Ask too before you go If I am still her dearest, precious dove. And hurry back, don't lose your way, So I can think of other things. But you were too lovely, perhaps, to stay. I loved you once. Good-bye, my love.

Ac? haf?zay? çatlat?yor. Ve buharla??yor hat?ralar.

Sevdi?imiz insanlar?n izleri neden bir yerde sürekli kalmazlar,neden onlar? her arad???m?zda bulamay?z? Bugün Duy?en'le birlikte indi?imiz o keçi yolunu bulsam kapan?r,izleri öperim.

There is no remembrance which time doth not obliterate, nor pain which death doth not put an end to.

happy is the nation without a history

Childhood is not only the childhood we really had but also the impressions we formed of it in our adolescence and maturity. That is why childhood seems so long. Probably every period of life is multiplied by our reflections upon the next.

It is not that the child lives in a world of imagination, but that the child within us survives and starts into life only at rare moments of recollection, which makes us believe, and it is not true, that, as children, we were imaginative?

That's the one immortal thing about a mortal, Leucò. The memory he carries with him, the memory he leaves behind him. That is what names and words are. When they remember even men smile. A smile of resignation.

Io non credo che possa finire. Ora che ho visto cos'è guerra, cos'è guerra civile, so che tutti, se un giorno finisse, dovrebbero chiedersi: - E dei caduti che facciamo? perché sono morti? - Io non saprei cosa rispondere. Non adesso, almeno. Né mi pare che gli altri lo sappiano. Forse lo sanno unicamente i morti, e soltanto per loro la guerra è finita davvero.

E scriverò per te, per il tuo ricordo straziante, pochi versi dolenti che tu non leggerai più. Ma a me staranno atroci, inchiodati nel cuore per sempre.»

O amor é o grande manifesto; a urgência de ser, de ter alguma importância e, se a morte vier, morrer com valentia, com clamor — em suma, permanecer na memória.

Un passato deve essere tanto familiare da poterlo rivivere meccanicamente e tanto inaspettato da farci stupire ogni volta che vi ritorniamo: allora è adatto alla fantasia.

Why do we forget the dead? Because they are no longer any use to us. Just as we forget, or push into the background, someone who is ill or bowed down with grief, because, physically or mentally, they have nothing to give us. No one will ever devote himself to you except for what he will get out of it.

Quello era tutto il mio passato, insopportabile eppure così diverso, così morto. M'ero detta tante volte in quegli anni - e poi più avanti, ripensandoci - che lo scopo della mia vita era proprio di riuscire, di diventare qualcuna, per tornare un giorno in quelle viuzze dov'ero stata bambina e godermi il calore, lo stupore, l'ammirazione di quei visi familiari, di quella piccola gente. E c'ero riuscita, tornavo; e le facce la priccola gente eran tutti scomparsi.