Quotes About Memory

Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.

The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.

Memory is the diary that chronicles things that never happened or couldn't possibly have happened.

One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.

You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play. I tell you Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back your past. No man is

tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream.

MISS PRISM Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us.

The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.

But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

There were opium-dens, where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.

You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself.

It was as if by taking a photo he could, at any moment, rein habit an older life - one where a body didn't droop, or hair didn't fall out, or a future didn't have to exist

And now I wonder what the old man remembers about her these days. Maybe nothing. Maybe silence has cured him of memory . Maybe there's an absolute vacuum in the anathema of age

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

We seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. We return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what it really was, what it meant.

If you start forgetting you're already lost.

To live on in the memory of others means that you do not die.

I hear, I know. I see, I remember. I do, I understand.

Perhaps that's how I should think of them, Polly thought, the troupe and Miss Snelgrove and Trot. And Sir Godfrey. Not as lost to her, but as removed to this moment in time for safekeeping.

Because Dunworthy is not blinking against the fatal sunlight of the last morning, but into the gloom of that first afternoon, looking in the great west doors of St. Paul's at what is, like Langby, like all of it, every moment, in us, saved forever.

That was the most difficult thing about time travel, remembering where and when one was. She'd forgotten she wasn't still a servant and called Linna "ma'am" twice