Quotes About Memory

I wrote about the night bird cries, the sea sounds and the lonely barking, and I liked what I wrote in flashes; but something was wrong with it. There is always something wrong with writing. So I tore the paper up at last, liking the untouched memory so much better, not wanting it forced into the insincerity of words.

No fui yo quien hizo esto, sino un yo anterior»

She pulls her uncle's topaz prayer beads out of her pockets and settles herself by thinking of braised squab: a sauce for wild game with motes of cinnamon and smoke.

Li Pin Chu tells them that if he could eat one dish every day for the rest of his life it would be sliced pork and egg in palm sugar. Han says he would enjoy some chicken stewed in onion yogurt sauce. Sirine thinks she might like some reheated spaghetti and meatballs- a breakfast that her mother used to make from the previous night's dinner.

She takes a bite of the custardy penne cotta and it melts into a dozen separate flavors. She can smell oranges and lemons, cherry and wood, and even the soft silk and wool of Persian carpets, the smell that she thought came from Iraq.

When the day shall come, that we do part, he said softly, and turned to look at me, if my last words are not 'I love you'—ye'll ken it was because I didna have time.

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it.

Roger speaking to Brianna: It's too important. You don't forget having a dad. You do remember your father? No. I remember yours.

Scots have long memories, and they're not the most forgiving of people.

It's only that ye looked so beautiful, wi' the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.

You forget the life you had before, after awhile. Things you cherish and hold dear are like pearls on a string. Cut the knot and they scatter across the floor, rolling into dark corners never to be found again. So you move on, and eventually you forget what the pearls even looked like. At least, you try.

The colors of living things begin to fade with the last breath, and the soft, springy skin and supple muscle rot within weeks. But the bones sometimes remain, faithful echoes of the shape, to bear some last faint witness to the glory of what was.

For the moment, everything had disappeared: the church, the battle, the screams and shouts and the rumble of limber wheels along the rutted road through Freehold. There wasn't anything but her and him, and he opened his eyes to look on her face, to fix it in his mind forever.

He shook his head, absorbed in one of his feats of memory, those brief periods of scholastic rapture where he lost touch with the world around him, absorbed completely in conjuring up knowledge from all its sources.

Yes. It doesn't matter what happens; no matter where a child goes - how far or how long. Even if it's forever. You never lose them. You can't.

How many 'inventions' are really memories, of the things we once knew?

We look in the mirror and see the shades of other faces looking back through the years; we see the shape of memory, standing solid in an empty doorway. By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.

I fought back the memory of our wedding night. He was a virgin; his hands trembled when he touched me. I had been afraid too--with better reason. And then in the dawn he had held me, naked back against his chest, his thighs warm and strong behind my own, murmuring into the clouds of my hair, Dinna be afraid. There's two of us now.

Sometimes twenty years seemed like an instant, and sometimes it seemed like a very long time indeed.

He hadn't worn the kilt since Culloden, but his body had not forgotten the way of it.

When I'd lost him the first time, before Culloden, I'd remembered. Every moment of our last night together. Tiny things would come back to me through the years: the taste of salt on his temple and the curve of his skull as I cupped his head; the soft fine hair at the base of his neck, thick and damp in my fingers Ã¢â'¬Â¦ the sudden, magical well of his blood in dawning light when I'd cut his hand and marked him forever as my own. Those things had kept him by me.

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it. So.

Is it true—that I won't forget?" He paused for a moment, hand on her hair. "Aye, that's true," he said softly. "But it's true, too, that it willna matter after a time.

The vivid memory of the woods had blossomed into a visceral longing for the Ridge, so immediate that I felt the ghost of my vanished house rise around me, a cold mountain wind thrumming past its walls, and thought that, if I reached down, I could feel Adso's soft gray fur under my fingers. I swallowed, hard.