Quotes About Memory

Atminties t?km? gali nuvesti jus iki suvokimo up?s. O suvokimas savo ruožtu gali b?ti atleidimo up?s intakas.

I covered his thumbprint with my thumb and considered for the first time that Papa might have been more than just old pictures - old, repeated stories.

I was watching how we'd filled the room with floating smoke, how our slightest movements stirred it. I was back at our old house on Carter Avenue, the night Daddy threw the barbell and Ma soaked herself in the tub, smoking, her brown nipples half in, half out of the water.

If you squinted while looking at her from across a room, you would swear Mrs. Nord was Jackie Kennedy. My own mother sat alone on Bobolink Drive all day, talking to her parakeet, Petey, and worrying about dead children. Around the time of our move to Bobolink Drive, I stopped kissing my mother on the lips. It had been over four years since she'd lost the baby.

She shooed away the kiss, a distraction. "Grouchie Gertie," she said, softly. "I'd forgotten that.

He took his hamburger out of the box, bit a large crescent shape out of it, and chewed. I looked away. "I've been thinking," he said. "Our apartment lease is up in less than three months. What do you say we move down to your grandmother's house." "I've been thinking, too," I said. "In a way, you raped her." "What?" "Your high school girlfriend. Sheila. You raped her.

Look back on the past but don't stare

there's life after love, and also that there is love, still, after a life is over.

Old. I'm almost forty, probably as close now to Mrs. Masicotte's age as I am to the age of my parents as they sat on that lawn, laughing and blowing dandelion puffs at me, smoking their shared Pall Mall cigarettes and thinking Mrs. Masicotte was the answer to their future—that that black-and-white Emerson television set was a gift free and clear of the strings that would begin our family's unraveling.

The real war will never get in the books.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred & fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.

What stays with you longest and deepest? Of curious panics, of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

Eravamo insieme. Tutto il resto del mondo l'ho scordato.

Here I sit gossiping in the early candle-light of old age—and my book—casting backward glances over our travel'd road.

The only historian capable of fanning the spark of hope in the past is the one who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he is victorious.

What has been forgotten.... is never something purely individual.

Everything remembered, everything thought, all awareness becomes base, frame, pedestal, lock and key of his ownership. Period, region, craft, previous owners - all, for the true collector, merge in each one of his possessions into a magical encyclopaedia whose quintessence is the fate of his object.

Memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theatre. It is the medium of past experience, as the ground is the medium in which dead cities lie interred.

Books, too, begin like the week – with a day of rest in memory of their creation. The preface is their Sunday.

Every passion borders on chaos, that of the collector on the chaos of memory.

The storyteller: he is the man who could let the wick of his life be consumed completely by the gentle flame of his story

The camera is getting smaller and smaller, ever readier to capture fleeting and secret moments whose images paralyse the associative mechanisms in the beholder.

We have long forgotten the ritual by which the house of our life was erected.