Quotes About Memory

Waarom duikt de herinnering op? Ik huil. En zonder reden. Ik kan niet lachen. Ik wil gelukkig zijn. Misschien is het een te grote vreugde die mijn ogen doet tranen.

Merk dies allein: nicht eine einzige Stunde kommt zweimal im Leben, Nicht ein Wort, nicht eines Blickes Ungreifbares Nichts ist je Ungeschehn zu machen, was Du getan hast, mußt du tragen, So das Lächeln wie den Mord!

I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.

The Lord of the Rings ] is not as seems widely supposed about 'power'. Power-seeking is only the motive-power that sets events going, and is relatively unimportant, I think. It is mainly concerned with Death, and Immortality; and the 'escapes': serial longevity, and hoarding memory. Letter 211 To Rhona Beare

May you say the things I have tried to say long after I am not there to say them. G. B. Smith's words were a clear call to Ronald Tolkien to begin the great work that he had been meditating for some time, a grand and astonishing project with few parallels in the history of literature. He was going to create an entire mythology.

This love for the memory of the countryside of his youth was later to become a central part of his writing, and it was intimately bound up with his love for the memory of his mother.

Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.

The past is comforting, Natalie. It's comforting because we survived it.

It was the day my grandmother exploded.

Hope is a place best not forgotten

Hope is a place best not forgotten' - Iain Cameron Williams

Light is all memory.

The German sociologist Niklas Luhmann once observed that the simple act of asking yourself, "Where did I put my keys?" performs unexpected magic: it transforms the world into a catalog of possible key locations.1 Under the couch, somewhere the dog or the baby moved

Records blurt out trapped moments of rapture, fear, love, anguish, despair, excitement, and insanity. When an album plays, it is a ghost wailing, imprisoned in the moment, rattling its chains.

Hay quienes dicen que este país es amnésico y reacio a afrontar su historia. Quizás no se equivocan.

Each of us becomes a new person as we redescribe the past.

One day in the 1930s, as winter approached and Jan was preparing to return to his parents' home, he asked Pulika to pose for a photo. Pulika asked, "Why do you need a photo of me? Are you going to betray me to the police?" Jan replied that he wanted the photo to remember him by. Pulika responded, "If you need a piece of paper to remember me by, forget me.

In a tiny number of places I have added a personal recollection in a footnote. But I have kept them out of the text. Personal anecdote and historical evaluation are in my view best kept apart. Leaving aside the frailties of memory, most of what passes by on a daily basis has only ephemeral resonance. Assessment of the significance of major occurrences nearly always requires not just detailed knowledge but the passage of time in which to digest it.

Loss bites and pulls. It is a thing of hooks sunk into every part of you, parts that you would not think could feel loss like thumbs and lips, hooks moored to wind and memory so that slightest disturbance, the slightest act of recall, tugs at those fine lines. Red is the colour of loss and its smell is like burned roses.

Coffee is a drink for grownups. No kid ever likes coffee. It's psychoactive. Coffee is the drug of memory.

Place becomes psyche, story becomes history.

The coffee doesn't taste the way it smells. For that Adriana is thankful. If it did, humans would never do anything other than drink it. Smell is the sense of memory. Each coffee would recall countless memories, boundless memories. Coffee as the drug of remembering.

All things. Except himself. He had only present. There was no past to direct him toward a future. There was no remembering of a time before. Before?

Why then had he no past before he found the word cold in his mouth? He squatted down on the poor warped floorboards, shivering, rubbing himself for warmth, trying to remember. For a long time he squatted like a bird, for birds have no past or future but only an eternal present.