Quotes About Memory

I've told so many lies about my age I don't know how old I am myself.

YESTERDAY, n. The infancy of youth, the youth of manhood, the entire past of age.

Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age, but the heart can.

A very long time ago, Grandmother had wanted to tell about all the things they did, but no one had bothered to ask. And now she had lost the urge.

I can't remember much about the early flights, except that it was ages before we got into First Class.

The brain forgets much, but the lower back remembers everything.

Many a man that couldn't direct ye to th' drug store on th' corner when he was thirty will get a respectful hearin' when age has further impaired his mind.

Man-made computers are limited in their performance by finite processing speed and memory. So, too, the cosmic computer is limited in power by its age and the finite speed of light.

It's a funny thing, character, the way it brands people as they age, rising from within to leave its scar.

To him who has thought, or done, or suffered much, the level days of his childhood seem at an immeasureable distance, far off as the age of chivalry, or as the line of Sesostris.

In America, people of a certain age ask, 'Where were you when Kennedy was shot?' In my house you were more likely to be asked, 'Where were you when you first read 'The Catcher In The Rye?

This is the year 1492. I am eighty-two years of age. The things I am going to tell you are things which I saw myself as a child and as a youth.

The battle for hearts and minds begins in the field of memory. And in that field, age has no limit.

What can you say when your husband says: 'You can't expect me to remember your birthday when you never look any older."

Of all the things I miss the thing I miss the most is my mind.

Middle age is when you have met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else and usually is.

That's the privilege of old age: You don't have to remember.

I am suddenly left alone again on the sunny path, with a memory of the rain.

What three things can never be done? / Forget. Keep silent. Stand alone

I've decided that the worst part of loneliness isn't being alone. It's being forgotten.

A lifetime's knowledge shimmers on the face of the land in the mind of a person who knows. The history of a place is the mind of an old man or an old woman who knows it.

I began to know my story then. Like everybody's, it was going to be the story of living in the absence of the dead.

It was no thought or word that called culture into being, but a tool or a weapon. After the stone axe we needed song and story to remember innocence, to record effect- and so to describe the limits, to say what can be done without damage.

And yet a knowledge is here that tenses the throat as for song: the inheritance of the ones, alive or once alive, who stand behind the ones I have imagined, who took into their minds the troubles of this place, blights of love and race, but saw a good fate here and willingly paid its cost, kept it the best they could, thought of its good, and mourned the good they lost. (From the ending of Where in Clearing, p179)