Quotes About Memory

Aquellos que no recuerdan el pasado están condenados a repetirlo

Sa-ti amintesti de seara asta, fiindca este inceputul vesniciei.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,' " Julián said, reciting the timeless aphorism from grade school.

Jorge Santayana—" " 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it

Finally, he pulled out Edmond's cell phone and reread the Winston Churchill screen-saver quote about shaping one's own legacy. History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.

Ingatan2 yg kacau balau & tdk terkatalogkan. Masa lalu, masa kini & imajinasi berbaur mnjdi satu. Spt mimpi. Sienna Brooks

Ceea ce am facut pentru noi insine moare odata cu noi; cee ace am facut pentru altii si pentru lumea intreaga ramane si este nemuritor.

Hesitantly, I touched the stump where my finger used to be. In my mind, something almost remembered itself, but the fumes of turpentine were making me a little lightheaded; whatever memory was on the verge of coughing itself up was gone even before it materialized. Out the window, I could see a squirrel was stumbling erratically around in circles underneath the old basketball net. Then I realized that it wasn't a squirrel; it was a brown paper bag.

and the thing that shocked her the most was how quickly such absences began to close. even after a few weeks, you could see how soon her parents would be forgotten, how their presence became an absence, and then...what? What did you call an absence that ceased to become an absence? what do you call a hole that has been filled in?

And he saw now that it wasn't real. That it had never been real. He could feel that other life shrinking and losing its possibility, and he knew that it was something that he should never, ever, think of again.

Constant forgetting is the best cure for all your maladies of anxiety and depression and self-loathing and despair. Rx, Rx, Rx.

The memory of it comes to me like a blow to the face, the way all true memories do, unasked for, unwelcome, a full-body possession.

The thing about the past is you can't fix it. It's not there. It won't stay put.

You can only look forward to a South Dakota winter if, as with childbirth, remodeling a house, or writing a novel, you're able to forget how bad it was the last time.

What, after all, is more real to us than the geography of our childhoods?

The life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered.

The young remember most deeply

Sol remembered the dream, remembered his daughter's hug, and realized that in the end—when all else is dust—loyalty to those we love is all we can carry with us to the grave. Faith—true faith—was trusting in that love.

The life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered. My three local years on Heaven's Gate, almost fifteen hundred standard days, allowed me to see, to feel, to hear ? to remember, as if I literally had been born again. Little matter that I had been born again in hell.

Later, dictating the tale into his comlog, the Consul remembered it as a seamless whole, minus the pauses, hoarse voice, false starts, and small redundancies which were the timeless failings of human speech

We are created for precisely this sort of suffering. In the end, it is all we are, these limpid tide pools of self-consciousness between crashing waves of pain. We are destined and designed to bear our pain with us, hugging it tight to our bellies like the young Spartan thief hiding a wolf cub so it can eat away our insides. What other creature in God's wide domain would carry the memory

Hell is also the memory of starving children in the slums of Armaghast and the smile of politicians sending boys off to die in colonial wars.

I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember'd.

Our apartment was filled with photos of us, notes I wrote to myself about us, holos of us on Hyperion, but Ã¢â'¬Â¦ you know. In the morning he would be an absolute stranger. By afternoon I began to believe what we'd had, even if I couldn't remember. By evening I'd be crying in his arms Ã¢â'¬Â¦ then, sooner or later, I'd go to sleep. It's better this way." Rachel