Quotes About Memory

I'm saying that it's a big decision. Your first love is important. It's part of your story The story you'll tell yourself, the one you'll tell about yourself, for the rest of your life.

lovely memory / Until eternity; / She came, she loved, and then she went away.

Everything passes, but nothing entirely goes away.

Of course he's always know that the Odyssey and the Illiad are stories that were passed on orally long before Homer - or whoever it was - wrote them down. But never before has the connection between space, time, and words revealed itself so clearly as at this moment. The bad drop of the desert shows it off in sharp relief, but really it's always just the same all over the world: without memory, man is nothing more than a bit of flesh on the planet's surface.

Time has the power to separate us, not only from others, but also from ourselves—a fact that's hard to grasp. We know that time also separates us from circumstances that might have turned us into very different people.

without memory, man is nothing more than a bit of flesh on the planet's surface. Then they rake the grass and carry the garden furniture from the terrace to beneath the roof of the shed, they deflate the rubber dinghy that Richard hasn't tried out a

Was alles mag da wohl noch im Dunkel seines Gedächtnisses warten, aber nie wieder aus der Abstellkammer hervorgeholt werden, bevor der Laden irgendwann endgültig zugemacht wird?

He can't remember, but he still knows exactly where to find it on his bookshelf, books are willing to wait, he says whenever visitors ask if he's read all the books on his shelves. . . .

Memory was a story you told yourself about yourself, extrapolated from a tiny dot-matrix of facts.

instead of trying to grapple with the implications of the story of empire, the British seem to have decided just to ignore it... the most corrosive part of this amnesia is a sense that because the nation is not what it was, it can never be anything again.

But to most of the English, their history is just that, history. The contrast is with Scotland or Ireland, where every self-respecting adult considers themselves to belong to an unbroken tradition stretching back to the wearing of woad: oppressed peoples remember their history.

I can't forget you, any more than I can forget my own name. He kissed me then, and the world which no longer mattered, completely fell away.

He leaned in. "Kiss me, one last time." I called up a distant memory of his lips against mine. But this time, I kept my eyes open. When he pulled back, Logan passed his hand over my hair. "Don't forget me, okay?

Memory is a rare ghost-raiser. Like a haunted house, its walls are ever echoing to unseen feet. Through the broken casements we watch the flitting shadows of the dead, and the saddest shadows of them all are the shadows of our own dead selves.

I don't understand German myself.  I learned it at school, but forgot every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much better ever since.

Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased their song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the dying day breathes out her last.

one that lingers long upon the retina of memory.

The music of life would be mute if the chords of memory were snapped asunder.

Do you not remember me?" whispered the Dream. "We had long talks together. The morning and the noonday pass. The evening still is ours. The twilight also brings its promise.

A baseball bat could not have hit me harder than that smile did. I was sixteen years old. In that time, how many thousands of smiles had been aimed at me? so why did this one feel like the first?

This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.

I'll still be missing you as much as ever. I'l still smile at the memory of you. I'll still be - Okay, I'll say it again - loving you, but I won't abandon myseld for you. I cannot be faithful to you without being faithful to myself.

Events become feelings, feelings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.

Happy. I had not heard that word since Mr. Milgrom spoke it at the last Hanukkah. I asked him the question that had been on my mind since then. Tata, what is happy? He looked at me and at the ceiling and back to me. Did you ever taste an orange? he said.