Quotes About Memory

Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On

Begin to forget it. It will remember itself from every sides, with all gestures in each our word. Today's truth, tomorrow's trend.

Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy.

Only a fadograph of a yestern scene.

You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame.

Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards him from the past.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

He remembered well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him…He remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium...

He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fè più ardenti. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.

She passed into his soul forever.

His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory - if anyone remembered him.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I?

Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left of us then?

Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound. Buzz. Buzz. But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms. I that sinned and prayed and fasted. A child Conmee saved from pandies. I, I and I. I.

To remember that and the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold and then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out: cold and hot. He felt cold and then a little hot: and he could see the names printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.

He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

What has gone? How it ends? Begin to forget it. It will remember itself from every sides, with all gestures, in each our word. Today's truth, tomorrow's trend. Forget, remember!

I would almost forget about Ida Durbin. But a sin of omission, if indeed that's what it was, can be like the rusty head of a hatchet buried in the heartwood of a tree -- it eventually finds the teeth of a whirling saw blade.

But the participants [in war] never forgot the details of their experience, and like the Wandering Jew, they were condemned to remain their own history books, each containing a story they could not pass on to others and from which no one would learn anything of value.

Every drunkard has many moments of shame that live like carpet tacks in his memory