Quotes About Memory

Naše špatná pam?t, na niž si tak hodn? st?žujeme, souvisí p?edevším s nedostatkem obraznosti.

I find it devastatingly sad that a woman could disappear to this extent, leaving no trace other than a daughter who barely remembers her.

It was sad enough to see her father drift away, but it was crushing to find her respect for his intellectual worth vanish with him.

The terrifying freedom of knowing that nothing, from now on, will become a memory.

Historia (Inquiry); so that the actions of of people will not fade with time.

Irene mai avea o banuiala: ca-si tinea in cap dorul de-acasa mic, facut ghem,ca nu cumva sa-l recunoasca. Ca atunci cand aparea, il reprima.Si ca, pentru a-si sufoca simturile,aseza pe ele cladiri intregi din gandurile ei.

Olha como chora, alguma coisa nele extravasou. Pensei muitas vezes nesta frase. Depois, escrevi-a numa folha em branco. Voltei a riscar, voltei a escrever. Quando a folha encheu, rasguei-a do caderno. A isto chama-se memória.

Nenhuma palavra é adequada para o sofrimento causado pela fome. Até hoje eu tenho que mostrar a fome que escapei do seu alcance. Desde que parei de passar fome, literalmente como a própria vida. E quando eu como, fico trancada dentro do gosto de comer. Por sessenta anos, desde que voltei do acampamento, tenho comido contra a fome.

You think about some of the most memorable meals you've ever had the food will be good but it will often be about locating a mental memory and taste is inexorably linked to all the other senses and memory, so ultimately it is all about taste.

He had a marvelously versatile gift for forgetting things.

Your life is like a little flute complaining A long way off, beyond the willow trees: A long way off, and nothing left remaining But memory of a music on the breeze.

Instinct's not a superpower. It's made of experience and memory and belief.

The story of my own childhood is a complicated sentence that I am always trying to finish, to finish and put behind me. It resists finishing, and partly this is because words are not enough; my early world was synaesthesic, and I am haunted by the ghosts of my own sense impressions, which re-emerge when I try to write, and shiver between the lines.

It's the living that turn and chase the dead. The long bones and skulls are tumbled from their shrouds, and words like stones thrust into their rattling mouths: we edit their writings, we rewrite their lives.

a grey wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream

Concentrate on sharpening your memory and peeling your sensibility. Cut every page you write by at least one third. Stop constructing those piffling little similes of yours. Work out what it is you want to say. Then say it in the most direct and vigorous way you can. Eat meat. Drink blook. Give up your social life and don't think you can have friends. Rise in the quiet hours of the night and prick your fingertips and use the blood for ink; that will cure you of persiflage!

When he wakes he has to learn the lack of her all over again

He will remember his first sight of the open sea: a gray wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream.

Children's] lives start long before birth, long before conception, and if they are aborted or miscarried or simply fail to materialise at all, they become ghosts in our lives...The unborn, whether they're named or not, whether or not they're acknowledged, have a way of insisting: a way of making their presence felt.

It's not easy to speak of nonexistence, even if you've already commissioned your tomb.

Tom Truth says, 'I do not know if I wrote this verse.' 'You have forgot it,' he says. 'As would any man of sense. Yet in the fifth stanza you write, Pardon me, your man, Tom Truth. Which you rhyme, unfortunately, with growth.' Christophe sniggers. 'Even I know better, and I am French.

Interesting how our vocabulary responds, providing us with words we have never needed before, words stacked away for us, neatly folded into our brain and there for our use: like a bride's lifetime supply of linen, or a ducal trove of monogrammed china. Death will overtake us before a fraction of those words are used.

He thinks, I remembered you, Thomas More, but you didn't remember me. You never even saw me coming.

I remembered the young man with his broad white smile and his ashen hair streaked with gold; the basted perfection of his firm flesh, and the grace of his hand clasping mine. I slotted the notes back inside, slid my purse away, and wondered: which of my defects did he notice first?