Quotes About Memory

But we share a memory which is worth all the rest of the world, and the sun of that memory never sets. And you know that I love you, that I would do anything in the world in my power if you should ask it, and that I am your servant as well as your brother. 'EDWARD.

The only thing faster than the speed of thought is the speed of forgetfulness. Good thing we have other people to help us remember.

When you wake up from a dream you have only a few precious moments before the details of the dream begin to dissipate and the memory fades. Not all dreams are significant or worth remembering. But the ones that are . . . happen again. So, wait for the dream to return. And never be afraid. Instead, consider it an opportunity to learn something profound and possibly wondrous about yourself.

Ice is most welcome in a cold drink on a hot day. But in the heart of winter, you want a warm hot mug with your favorite soothing brew to keep the chill away. When you don't have anything warm at hand, even a memory can be a small substitute. Remember a searing look of intimate eyes. Receive the inner fire.

He had another attack of what is known as 'transient global amnesia' (TGA) which wiped out every memory since early childhood. This attack lasted twelve hours. There are hundreds of examples of statins

The fact is, that having once seen Alice Oke in the reality, it was quite impossible to remember that one could have fancied her at all different: there was something so complete, so completely unlike every one else, in her personality, that she seemed always to have been present in one's consciousness, although present, perhaps, as an enigma.

Enormous cemeteries existed among sedentary civilizations, where the weight of the past grew larger than any present time.

And Pham drowned in an old, old rage, remembering….

She has been to the compound before. She remembered this hallway. She knows about the initiation process. My mother was Dauntless.

I do know who you are. I just needed to be reminded.

After the dead words, after the ones still said and spoken, what do you expect? Some flying leaves, more scattered papers. Who knows? Some dissolving words, like the light or the echo dying out there in the great night.

Did I know who I was, or did I just learn to forget myself?

If I die, leave me alone. Don't sing to me. Bury me wrapped in the deck I leave behind, in that lovely treasure that will know how to strum me like a sure hand. I'll sound like a fragrance from the depths, very grave. I 'll rise to your ears, and from there, turned into pure vegetation, I 'll debunk myself, untelling my own story, my own plot, Rowing back into my mouth left ajar, into the Dream that keeps on swallowing and, like a cardboard mask, won 't cough me up.

Unfortunately, by then, he had already seen the last of his beloved elephant Bandoola. The great tusker had been killed before war's end, in circumstances that would haunt Williams for the rest of his life. It was, he would always maintain, nothing short of murder

Memories are stronger than we think.

His stomach growled again. He couldn't remember ever being this hungry. A little brown spider scurried between his shoes. He snatched it up, shoved it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed. Wait. That's not right. Allen strongly suspected he needed to be rescued.

Nothing awakens a reminiscence like an odor

The way memory is the ringing after a gunshot. The way we try to remember the gunshot but can't. The way memory gets up after someone has died and starts walking.

Before my mother's death, I sat anywhere. Now I look for the image of the empty chair near the image of the empty table. An image of me sits down. Depression is a glove over the heart. Depression is an image of a glove over the image of a heart.

The way memory gets up after someone has died and starts walking.

My mother, now covered, was no longer my mother. A covered apple is no longer an apple. A sketch of a person isn't the person. Somewhere, in the morning, my mother had become the sketch. And I would spend the rest of my life trying to shade her back in.

To borrow Julia Creet's phrase, maybe "memory is where we have arrived rather than where we have left." ... I used to think I was a transcriber of my own experiences and memories, adding an image here and there, but now I think I am more of a shaper. I take small fragments of image, memory, silence, and thought, and shape them with imagninary hands into something different.

Before this other stone appeared, my mother's stone was still my mother because of the absence around her. The appearance of the new stone and the likeness to her stone implied my mother was a stone too, that my mother was buried under the stone too.

At the end of the day, someone took the monitor and speakers away. But the music was still there. This was my first understanding of grief.