Quotes About Memory

The moment she was cursed, I lost her. Once it wears off- soon- she will be embarrassed to remember things that she said, things she did, things like this. No matter how solid she feels in my arms, she is made of smoke.

Memory is slippery. It bends to our understanding of the world, twists to accommodate our prejudices. It is unreliable. Witnesses seldom remember the same things. They identify the wrong people. They give us the details of events that never happened. Memory is slippery, but my memories suddenly feel slipperier.

Above me is the same silvery moon that shines down on you. Looking at it makes me recall the glint of your blade pressed against my throat and other romantic moments.

We are, largely, who we remember ourselves to be

It makes you a different person, to not have a past. It eats away at who you are, until what's left is all construct, all artifice.

Better to leave him with the memory of their being a pair of monsters, wrapped in each other's arms.

That was seven years ago. The doctors told her father the memory would fade, like the big messy scar on her arm, but neither ever did.

Really it was a pretty good talk. About the best I could expect from my sociopath amnesiac jerk of an older brother.

She came out of sleep like a thunderclap—waking from dreams so deep and dark that she couldn't remember anything but dirt and hands pulling her down into graves with cities inside them.

Prince Oak, heir to Elfhame. Son of the traitorous Grand General and brother to the mortal High Queen. Oak, to whom I was once promised in marriage. Who had once been my friend, although he doesn't seem to remember it.

because she remembered things that hurt more easily than anything nice.

She thought of the grainy video of him she had seen, head tipped back, so covered in blood that she hadn't remembered his features, hadn't remembered him as looking like anything but a monster, laughing, endlessly laughing. Mad as a dog. Mad as a god.

The flavor of that blood stayed with him through the long years of his service (...) by then he could no longer remember whose blood it was, only that he had grown used to the taste.

It turns out that having kissed someone, the possibility of kissing hangs over everything, no matter how terrible an idea it was the first time. The memory of his mouth on mine shimmers in the air between us.

Once, Lila Zacharov was in love with a boy with hair as black as spilled ink and eyes as dark as coffee. She would trace his name on her skin, over and over, write it in the condensation of her breath on panes of glass, scrawl it on the bottoms of her feet with the tip of her nail, like she was casting a spell.

The hardest thing—the impossible thing—is to get past the memory of Cardan telling me he loved me. He said those words, and I didn't answer him. I thought there would be time. And I was happy—despite everything—I was happy, just before everything went so terribly wrong. We won. Everything was going to work out. And he loved me.

I do not want to consider what happened between us. I do not want to think about the way his muscles moved or how his skin felt or the soft gasping sounds he made or the slide of his mouth against mine. I definitely don't want to think about how hard I had to bite my own lip to keep quiet. Or how obvious it was that I'd never done any of the things we did, no less the things we didn't do

Remember when . . . ? Stories like that were will-o'-the-wisps, glowing in the deepest, darkest parts of forests, leading travelers farther and farther from safety, out toward an ever-moving mark.

The hardest thing- the impossible thing- is to get past the memory of Cardan telling me he loved me. He said those words, and I didn't answer him. I thought there would be time. And I was happy- despite everything- I was happy, just before everything went so terribly wrong. We won. Everything was going to work out. And he loved me.

He just looked like a pretty boy, tall and lanky. She thought again of the crumpled paper in her purse and of him, caged beneath a cemetery. How long had he been there? How long had he looked just as he did now? A hundred years? Two hundred? Could he even remember the press of time? Maybe having stepped outside of it would drive anybody crazy.

You whom I could not save Listen to me." —CZESLAW MILOSZ, "Dedication

You broke the Madden brothers. I remember them, Joesph, and I remember what you did to them.

My heart is buried with you in the strange soil of the mortal world.

I remember you,' says the door. 'My prince's lady.' 'You're mistaken,' I say. 'Seldom.' The door swings open with a slight creak that indicates disuse. 'Hail and welcome.