Quotes About Memory

Maybe that's who you are, what you remember." - Valentine

The little bitch. She didn't have her files in another computer. She kept everything she knew inside her head.

The memory of the pain did not destroy the reality of the pleasure; grief did not obliterate joy.

I cut the wood however I like, but it's the grain that decides the strength and shape of it. You can add and subtract memories from people, but it isn't just your memory that makes you who you are. There's something in the grain of the mind.

Why should I worry about uncreating so much of human history? Why should I care that it will be worse than forgotten, that it will be unknown? Why should that seem to be a crime, when all of human history is an eyeblink compared to the billions of years the stars have shone?

If he did not speak his tale, it grew dank and musty, it shrank inside him, while with the telling the tale stayed fresh and virtuous.

The disadvantage with people is that you can't put bookmarks in them and set them aside till you want them again.

The story of Ender's Game is not this book though it has that title emblazoned on it. The story is one that you and I will construct together in your memory. If the story means anything to you at all, then when you. remember it afterward, think of it, not as something I created, but rather as something that we made together.

It might have been a single day; it might have been a week; from his dreams, it could have been months.

Maybe that's who you are, what you remember.

Miro, I'm so sorry. I always felt such pity for you humans because you could only think of one thing at a time and your memories were so imperfect and . . . now I realize that just getting through the day without killing somebody can be an achievement.

The human need to leave something of yourself behind is universal.

Mas nesse momento, sua cabeça inclinada para trás, as folhas verdes e macias se movendo gentilmente na brisa quase imperceptível, sentiu um poderoso déjà-vu. Ele havia olhado para essas folhas antes. Recentemente. Mas isso era impossível. Não havia árvores grandes em Trondheim, e nenhuma crescia dentro do complexo de Milagre. Por que a luz do sol varando as folhas parecia-lhe tão familiar?

I am old enough now to have all the memories of my people locked within my head. I remember things that happened long before I was born. I remember things that never happened at all. I live in memory. –Anton

He dreamed, as human beings always dream—random firings of memory and imagination that the unconscious mind tries to put together into coherent stories. Bean rarely paid attention to his own dreams, rarely even remembered that he dreamed at all. But

And so she wrote, and wept; and when the weeping was done, the writing went on. When the hair that he had left behind was sealed in a small box and buried in the grass near Human's root, she would stand and speak. Her voice would raise him from the dead, make him live again in memory. And she would also be merciful; and she would also be just. That much, at least, she had learned from him.

You're bigger than I remembered, she said stupidly. You too, he said. I also remembered that you were beautiful. Memory does play tricks on us. No. Your face is the same, but I don't remember what beautiful means anymore.

Living men forget the lessons of the past. But the ancestors never forget.

I'll tell your story,' said Ender. 'Then I will truly live forever.

There was no memory of pain or fear, though. What the hive-queen felt was sadness, a sense of resignation. She had not thought these words as she saw the humans coming to kill, but it was in words that Ender understood her: The humans did not forgive us, she thought. We will surely die.

The only gift I have," said Hull, "is the gift of remembering all kindnesses, and trusting those worthy of trust.

The only profit from their sojourn on Earth would be the memory of this mad species, which had somehow become intelligent without ever learning how to understand themselves.

A human child loses almost all the memories of the first years of its life, and its long-term memories only take root in its second or third year of life; everything before that is lost, so that the child cannot remember the beginning of life.

Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash - the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we're going to die. Be of good heart, cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much.