Quotes About Memory

I cannot give a single concert at which I do not play one piece after the other in an agony of terror because my memory threatens to fail me. This fear torments me for days beforehand.

He was intrigued now, as when he had first met her, by her apparent lack of interest in him. 'Gertie, Gertie,' he said in humblest tones. 'I treated you badly.' She peered at him rather rudely, as if trying to recollect what he was talking about. 'You were a stage on a journey,' she commented at last. 'Journeys are seldom comfortable.

Where does music go when it's not playing?—she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.

I see myself abandoned, solitary, thrown into a cell without dimensions, where light and shadows are silent phantoms. Within my inner self I find the silence I am seeking. But it leaves me so bereft of any memory of any human being and of me myself, that I transform this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. Were I to cry out — I can no longer see things clearly — my voice would receive the same indifferent echo from the walls of the earth.

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

I must not forget, I thought, that I have been happy, that I am being happier than one can be. But I forgot, I've always forgotten.

Mas lembrar-se com saudade é como se despedir de novo.

Así como nadie le enseñaría un día a morir: seguramente un día moriría como si antes se hubiese estudiado de memoria la representación del papel de una estrella. Pues en la hora de la muerte las personas se vuelven brillantes estrellas de cine, es el instante de gloria de cada uno y es como cuando en el canto coral se oyen agudos silbantes.

Nunca la olvidé: jamás se olvida a una persona con la que se ha dormido.

What does it feel like to have a girl?" said the man, chewing. Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin, tilted his head to one side and said smiling: "Sometimes it feels like I have a warm egg in my hand. Sometimes, nothing: total memory loss…Occasionally it feels like I have a girl of my own, really mine.

Long live the dead because we live in them.

So i dedicate this thing here to old Schu­mann and his sweet Clara who today alas are bones. I dedicate it to the very crimson color scarlet like my blood of a man in his prime and so I dedicate it to my blood. I dedicate it above all to the gnomes, dwarfs, sylphs, and nymphs who inhabit my life. I dedicate it to the memory of my former poverty, when everything was more sober and dignified and I had never eaten lobster.

É preciso que eu não esqueça. pensei, que fui feliz, que estou feliz mais do que se pode ser. Mas esqueci, sempre esqueci.

I thought of something so beautiful that I couldn't understand it. And I ended up forgetting what it was.

The gray mists and the grayer houses were full of the menace of memory: they were like traitorous tombs from which the cadavers of dead hours poured forth to assail me with envenomed fangs and talons.

Someone, and no matter where, collects the pieces of my shadow.

One gave oneself time, one lost oneself, one followed the sun, one fell asleep so often on a bed of straw, and now, how fresh is the memory of wind one might say that the rain hissed a long silence and it was as if in the evening gods were born but so small that the birds pecked them like grain.

But that's the thing about words. They can't ever really erase other words. They can scribble over them, but they can never make them totally go away." -Autumn

A memory for details, Elena knows, is only for the brave, and being cowardly or brave is not something one can choose.

La extrañaba incluso más que a Ana, tal vez porque echar de menos a alguien vivo tiene más sentido que hacerlo con un muerto. La muerte pide resignación, la ausencia no.

Cuántas otras palabras habré perdido? ¿A qué lugar de la memoria irán a parar las palabras olvidadas?

La memoria de los detalles, Elena sabe, es sólo para gente valiente, y ser cobarde o valiente no puede elegirse.

Memory is a tough place. You were there.

Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.