Quotes About Memory

Przecie? nie piszemy historii. Piszemy o pami?taniu.

Was du vergisst, geht nicht verloren, Es schläft nur, um eines Tages wieder zu erwachen.

But she was haunted by the terrible memory of the time they had once before dragged a man out of her flat, and out of her life. Her anxiety wouldn't permit it, she had to go out and check.

Del mismo modo que no podemos «comprender» una melodía hasta que no se extingue su última nota, y juntándolas todas reconstruimos en nuestra memoria su unidad original, así tampoco podemos comprender el acontecimiento de Cristo en su totalidad más que mirándolo desde la resurrección.

Like a wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we were, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment.

Aesthetic value emanates from the struggle between texts: in the reader, in language, in the classroom, in arguments within a society. Aesthetic value rises out of memory, and so (as Nietzsche saw) out of pain, the pain of surrendering easier pleasures in favour of much more difficult ones ... successful literary works are achieved anxieties, not releases from anxieties.

My protagonists are my mother's voice and the mind I had when I was thirteen.

I took off my sweatshirt and dropped it on the grass and set off around the track. As soon as I started running, the world changed. The bodies spread out across the green of the football field were parts of a scene remembered, not one real at this moment. The secret of effort is to keep on, I told myself. Not for the world would I have stopped then, and yet nothing- not even if I had been turned handsome as a reward for finishing- could have made up for the curious pain of the effort.

There is no such thing as closure for soldiers who have survived a war. They have an obligation, a sacred duty, to remember those who fell in battle beside them all their days and to bear witness to the insanity that is war.

Our memory of dreams is a glimpse of the full spiritual life that each of us leads beyond the physical.

Through the gate in the mountain comes the buran, the wind that destroys. Shepherds and the flocks of shepherds die at the cold touch of the buran. From the iron gate of the winds in the sky comes the buran, and where it breathes is desolation. Before the time of our fathers and their fathers and the memory of the oldest men there came through the gate of the mountain the Destroyer. Genghis Khan, the Destroyer, rode through the gateway of Mongolia and in his path there was desolation.

There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.

The past is what you remember, imagine you remember, convince yourself you remember, or pretend you remember.

JERRY: I was best man at your wedding. I saw you in white. I watched you glide by in white. EMMA: I wasn't in white. JERRY: You know what should have happened? EMMA: What? JERRY: I should have had you, in your white, before the wedding. I should have blackened you, in your white wedding dress, blackened you in your bridal dress, before ushering you into your wedding, as your best man.

To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.

With the memory of Dr. H. H. Holmes still fresh in their minds

I've buried all the hatchets. But I know where I've buried them and I can dig them up again if necessary.

These words dropped into my childish mind as if you should accidentally drop a ring into a deep well. I did not think of them much at the time, but there came a day in my life when the ring was fished up out of the well, good as new.

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it never had in possession.

Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling! Thou art passing away; but they that love thee dearest know it not.

Adiós, querida niña! Las brillantes puertas eternas se han cerrado a tus espaldas; no veremos más tu dulce rostro. ¡Ay de los que hemos visto tu entrada en el cielo, cuando despertemos para encontramos a solas con las nubes grises de la vida cotidiana, pues tú te has marchado para siempre!».

Yes, I know you do! There isn't one of you that hasn't always been very kind to me; and I want to give you something that, when you look at, you shall always remember me, I'm going to give all of you a curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am gone to heaven, and that I want to see you all there.

Death! Strange that there should be such a word, and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever!

Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!