Quotes About Memory

Here is a minute. It may be my love is dead, but here is a minute to kneel over the grave and pray by it.

will continue on. For some, the thought was expressed by a bard a thousand years ago who wrote that at least what remains behind is the memory of glory once won.

Two years ago your father died, Ulysses. But as long as we are alive, as long as we are together, as long as two of us are left, and remember him, nothing in the world can take him from us.

But try to remember that a good man can never die. You will see your brother many times again-in the streets, at home, in all the places of the town. The person of a man may go, but the best part of him stays. It stays forever.

Death is not an easy thing for anyone to understand, least of all a child, but every life shall one day end. But as long as we are alive, as long as we are together, as long as two of us are left, and remember him, nothing in the world can take him from us. His body can be taken, but not him.

The real story can never be told. It is untellable. The real (as real) is inaccessible, being gone in time. There is no point in glancing at the past, in summoning it up, in re-examining it, except on behalf of art — that is, the meaningful-real. (The Bicycle Rider In Beverly Hills (1952))

The person of a man may go, but the best part of him stays. It stays forever.

Of the unchanging things, the town in which you first saw the light is one of the most unchanging. It is always a place of monotony but at the same time, as you grow, change, go away, remember, return, and go away again, it is one of the most inexhaustibly rich places. And yet what it is is so nearly nothing, except for the dull, drab, lonely, lost objects of it, that you never know, each time you return to it, what it is that holds you so strongly to it.

I don't expect you to understand anything I'm telling you. But I know you will remember this—that nothing good ever ends. If it did, there would be no people in the world—no life at all, anywhere. And the world is full of people and full of wonderful life.

O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)

Sweets to the sweet, farewell! I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not have strewed thy grave.

The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.

How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Let us not burthen our remembrance with A heaviness that's gone.

I do feel it gone, But know not how it went

William Shakespeare

He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR: Therein the patient Must minister to himself.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life's but breath, to trust it error.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment: cold in blood, To say as I said then! But, come, away; Get me ink and paper: He shall have every day a several greeting, Or I'll unpeople Egypt.

What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?

I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in't: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.

I would forget it fain, But oh, it presses to my memory, Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners' minds.