Quotes About Memory

A composition that we do not understand or like appears to expand in time as we experience it, yet vanishes almost immediately from memory.

People who think my books are autobiographical, which they're not, credit me with having a much better memory than I do. I do, however, have a powerful imagination.

Rain brings us together in one of the last untamed encounters with nature that we experience routinely, able to turn the suburbs and even the city wild. Huddled with our fellow humans under construction scaffolding to escape a deluge, we are bound in the memory and mystery of exhilarating, confounding, life-giving rain.

When Flora was a young girl she used to try to "fix" moments in her memory. The notion that years of her life would pass and she would only remember snippets, seconds of the whole, distressed her. She came up with a plan and at various times-walking home from school or out with friends or just sitting at her desk she would think: This. Remember this.

One of the many qualities she and her mother shared was a mutual love for an event concluded. It was an inclination she fought all her life. She loved a party best when it was over and the house had been restored to order and she could sit in the quiet and replay the evening. Too often, she looked forward to the end of something-to beginning the remembering-more than the thing itself.

Each second neared our last. We danced. "Kieren . . ." "Shhh . . ." We danced. "I'll be okay." Was that me lying? Or him? We danced. "Close your eyes," he whispered, brushing his lips against mine. "Know that I'm missing you already and that you'll always be in my prayers." When I opened my eyes, I stood alone in the middle of the dance floor.

It's easy to remember only the good parts of people if you never see them. Real people are much more complicated.

Maybe it's kinder not to remember, because you don't have to grieve.

What we remember from childhood we remember forever — permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.

There stands the parable; there stands the sacred metaphor of belonging, one heart to another. WIthout the metaphor of memory and history, we cannot imagine the life of the Other. We cannot imagine what it is to be someone else. Metaphor is the reciprocal agent, the universalizing force: it makes possible the power to envision the stranger's heart.

What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.

Michael Hopkins of the Neurobiology of Learning and Memory Laboratory at Dartmouth reports,"It looks more and more like the positive stress of exercise prepares cells and structures and pathways within the brain so that they're more equipped to handle stress in other forms." This means the stress you get from pushing yourself to your physical limits can translate to improved resilience when facing psychological and emotional stressors in the rest of your life.

Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.

Imagination is nostalgia for the past, the absent; it is the liquid solution in which art develops the snapshot of reality.

The artist secretes nostalgia around life.

Da quando sono qui da sola, ho la sensazione di passeggiare tenendo i miei morti per mano. Facciamo un giro, mi confortano e mi hanno paura allo stesso tempo. Mi raccontano la stessa storia, tutti i giorni.

We are nothing like the gods. We will never be remembered for the time we attempted the waltz on our balcony, as the stars blinked drowsily, the moon like a frozen yawn. Even with one of us gone, would not the mind of the other reveal its universe, its constellation of memories like a field of flickering candles, the same face at the center of every flame?

Of all things broken and lost, porcelain troubles me most.

Most distinguished voyager, what was your eon like? —Comic. Terror is forgotten. Only the ridiculous is remembered by posterity. Death from a wound, from a noose, from starvation Is one death, but folly is uncounted and new every year.

How to resist nothingness? What power Preserves what once was, if memory does not last? For I remember little. I remember so very little.

He] Attacks the past, but fears that, having destroyed it, He will have nothing on which to lay his head.

Es posible que no haya otra memoria que la memoria de las heridas».

May the gentle mountains and the bells of the flocksRemind us of everything we have lost,For we have seen on our way and fallen in loveWith the world that will pass in a twinkling.

Not to know. Not to remember. With this one hope: That beyond the River Lethe, there is memory, healed.