Quotes About Memory

Die Toten können deine Liebe nicht erwidern.

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name.

Such as. Do you ever think what it would be like to meet a person you've known for a long time for the first time in these later years? To meet them anew. You're thinking they would be a much different person to you if you didnt know their history. Yes. How would it differ from when you first met them? That's not it. We're talking about them as they are now. Only with a past unknown to us.

Borman looked around. Somewhere out here the last ivorybill died. Thirty years ago probably. I still listen for them. What sense does that make? They're gone forever. I didnt know you were a bird watcher. I'm not. I'm a forever watcher. Forever is a long time.

Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever, he said. You might want to think about that. You forget some things, don't you? Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.

Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not -Judge Holden

place of being except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can never be done with the telling.

He said that while it was true that time heals bereavement it does so only at the cost of the slow extinction of those loved ones from the heart's memory which is the sole place of their abode then or now. Faces fade, voices dim. Seize them back, whispered the sepulturero. Speak with them. Call their names. Do this and do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift.

SönmüÅŸ aÅŸklar?n fani ete kaz?nm?? efsaneleri.

if mathematics is performed mostly in the unconscious we still have no notion as to how it goes about it. ... And why is it so often right? Who does it check its work with? I've had solutions simply handed to me. Out of the blue. The locus ceruleus perhaps. And it has to remember everything. No notes. It's hard to escape the unsettling conclusion that it is not using numbers.

Memories dim with age. There is no repository for our images. The loved ones who visit us in dreams are strangers. To even see aright is effort. We seek some witness but the world will not provide one. This is the third history. It is the history that each man makes alone out of what is left to him. Bits of wreckage. Some bones. The words of the dead. How make a world of this? How live in that world once made?

Death is what the living carry with them.

Life is a memory, then it is nothing. All law is writ in a seed.

But what is your life? Can you see it? It vanishes at its own appearance. Moment by moment. Until it vanishes to appear no more. When you look at the world is there a point in time when the seen becomes the remembered? How are they separate? It is that which we have no way o show. It is that which is missing from our map and from the picture that it makes. And yet is all we have.

This is the house where the dead lived. It is gone, lost and gone.

They have a long life, dreams. I have dreams now which I had as a young girl. They have an odd durability for something not quite real. Do you think they mean anything? She looked surprised. Oh yes, she said. Dont you? Well. I dont know. They're in your head. She smiled again. I suppose I dont consider that to be the condemnation you do.

Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.

The house was built in 1872. Seventy-seven years later his grandfather was the first to die in it. What others had lain in state in that hallway had been carried there on a gate or wrapped in a wagonsheet or delivered crated up in a raw pineboard box with a teamster standing at the door with a bill of lading. The ones that came at all. For the most part they were dead by rumor. A yellowed scrap of newsprint. A letter. A telegram.

It's easier to remember two things than one. It's why it's easier to remember the words of a song than the words of a poem. For instance. The music is an armature upon which you assemble the words.

Die Geschichte ist eine Sammlung von Papier. Ein paar verblassende Erinnerungen. Nach einer Weile ist das, was nicht geschrieben steht, nie geschehen.

The straight and the winding way are one and now that you are here what do the years count since last we two met together? Men's memories are uncertain and the past that was differs little from the past that was not.

I don't know what to tell you, he wrote. Much has changed and yet everything is the same. I am the same. I always will be. I'm writing because there are things that I think you would like to know. I am writing because there are things I dont want to forget. Everything is gone from my life except you. I dont even know what that means.

Sutree se detiene junto a una vieja cripta que un árbol ha desmantelado a medias en su crecer. Dentro no hay nada. Ni huesos ni polvo. Como sin duda son los muertos después de la muerte. La muerte es lo que los vivos llevan consigo. Un estado de pánico, como un presagio inquietante de un recuerdo amargo. Pero los muertos no recuerdan, y la nada no es una maldición. En absoluto.

He had been shot through the head with a .32 caliber pistol and he was twenty-one years old forever.