Quotes About Memory

once stood, and Erika's memories were dissolving, disappearing, being washed away like a chalk drawing on pavement in the rain, and all she felt right now was cold and wet and foolish. 57

Was today the worst anniversary yet, or was it always this bad? It was probably always this bad. It was so easy to forget how bad things were. Like winter. Like the flu. Like childbirth.

Jesus. She even knew Liam's name. How was that possible? She'd forgotten her very existence until thirty seconds ago. Liam looked over, aimed his stick straight at Cecilia and pulled the imaginary trigger. "Liam!" said Tess at the same time as Cecilia groaned, clutched her chest and buckled at the knees. She did it so well, for an awful moment Tess worried that she really was collapsing. Liam held the stick up to his mouth, blew on it and grinned, delighted.

Those we love don't go away, they sit beside us every day. (plaque dedication on a park bench)

Lars swirled the tasting glass... an instant memory of an autumnal day... It felt like a childhood memory, but probably wasn't. More likely a memory he'd borrowed from a book or movie.

pain, no surprise you're dead. You're old. That's what is meant to happen. We don't care that you forget you're old. We know you're old. Rose thinks of that poem she used to like and is pleased with herself when she can remember the first few lines. Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

office to which she would never return. 2 Ten years later Frances On a hot, cloudless January day, Frances Welty, the formerly bestselling romantic novelist, drove alone through scrubby bushland six hours north-west of her Sydney home. The black ribbon of highway unrolled hypnotically

It was almost as though something interesting and unusual had happened to him and he'd forgotten to tell Cat about it until now.

It was so easy to forget how bad things were. Like winter. Like the flu. Like childbirth.

Suicide is the dumbest possible way of getting revenge. Why is that? Because the people you want to strike back at are the very same folks who won't even remember you a week after you're gone, while the people you want to spare most -- the people who love you -- are the ones who will have to live with the pain of your suicide for the rest of their lives.

Wish I never met ya I wouldnt want to be ya.

She put her head back, then her eyes closed. We stuck in the moment, like the time froze. Then my girl called, back to reality. But I keep in a picture in my heart gallery.

What the mind has forgotten, the body remembers long after.

How had I managed to tie my boots? I didn't even remember getting dressed. I was out here in public at the mall. What was I wearing? Jeans. I could feel socks. I had my boots on. I plucked at the edge of my t-shirt and saw it was red. I was wearing Dad's spare Army jacket, and there was a heavy weight in the right pocket that had to be something deadly.

Maybe handling her memory every day for five years had made it fade, like the mortal thing it was.

We are a people who do not want to keep much of the past in our heads. It is considered unhealthy in America to remember mistakes, neurotic to think about them, psychotic to dwell on them.

It was only a button. It was only a bit of thread. From a wrinkled blue dress I had once undone.

I wanted her and no one else to tell me the story of how she died.

My voice is nothing special, but when your mother tells you something about yourself, even if you've coaxed it out of her, it's hard not to always believe it. I sing to the geese. And I feel her. It's different from remembering her or yearning for her. I feel her near me. I don't know if she is the geese or the river or the sky or the moon. I don't know if she is outside of me or inside of me, but she is here. I feel her love for me. I feel my love reach her. A brief, easy exchange.

Halfway across the river I hoist myself on the wide parapet, swing my legs over the edge, and look down in the water for Quentin's body. How does a man in Mississippi in the 1920s create a character who feels more alive to a waitress in 1997, remembered with more tenderness, than most of the boys she's ever known? How do you create a character like that?

My mind has circled back again to that conversation with Helen on the steps of Schermerhorn about how each culture has a flavor. What she said that night comes back to me at least once a day. Have I ever said anything to anyone that has come back once a day for 8 years?

When I was visiting her a few years ago she hugged me and said, 'Tomorrow after you leave I will stand here at this window and remember that yesterday you were right here with me.' And now she's dead and I have that feeling all the time, no matter where I stand.

When I was visiting her a few years ago she hugged me and said, 'Tomorrow after you leave I will stand here at this window and remember that yesterday you were right here with me.

When my mother died, I sort of felt her inside me sometimes,' I say. 'Like I'd swallowed her.' He laughs. 'Swallowed her.' 'I still have moments when I feel that, when it feels like she's inside me, and there's no difference between us or that the difference doesn't matter.