Quotes About Memory

Her breath was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.

And the next thing I remember is waking in France, in the Abbey of Sainte Anne de Beaupré, with my head throbbing like a drum and someone I couldn't see giving me something cool to drink.

also was remembering the baronet who might have been his father. He reached

Jamie," I said at last. "Oh, Jamie. You're Ã¢â'¬Â¦ everything. Always." An hour later, we left the Ridge.

It's the anonymity of war that makes the killing possible. When the nameless dead are named again on tombstone and on cenotaph, then they regain the identity they lost as soldiers, and take their place in grief and memory, the ghosts of sons and lovers.

He remembered Jamie's face as they rode in to Helwater, alight as they saw the women on the lawn—with William.

You never knew, when you took farewell of someone, whether it might be the last time. The least you could do was say you loved them—and she wished she had. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and, as they swung out to go around the first curve, threw a kiss to the distant figure, still standing in the road.

Man is like the grass that withers and is thrown into the fire; he is like the sparks that fly upward Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and his place will know him no more

The duty of a survivor. Not everyone lives to be old, but if you do, I think you owe it to those who didn't. To tell the stories of those who shared your journey…for as long as they could.

Something about the ragged beggar seemed faintly familiar, too.

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

Suddenly the confusing image he had sought so desperately came back unbidden; Brianna's face, with its broad, clean bones, blue eyes set slantwise about a long, straight nose. But Brianna's face grown older, weathered to bronze, rough-cut and toughened by masculinity and experience, blue eyes gone black with a murderous rage. Jamie Fraser

And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.

That was the first time that he ever touched me willingly," he said quietly. "And the last—until this evening, when I gave him the other copy of that miniature.

Last night," he repeated, uncertain. Last night had been confused, but he did remember it. The eel party. Lucinda Joffrey, Caroline…Why on earth ought Hal to be concerned with…what, the duel? Why should his brother care about such a silly affair—and even if he did, why appear at Grey's door at the crack of dawn with his six-month-old daughter

I tried to ignore the conversation going on behind me, to lose myself instead in the memory of Jamie hewing bark and squaring logs, of sleeping in his arms under the shelter of a half-built wall, feeling the house rise up around me, enclosing me in warmth and safety, the permanent embodiment of his embrace. I always felt safe and soothed by this vision, even when I was alone on the mountain, knowing I was protected by the house he had built for me.

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... 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 kept him by me.

remembering so acutely Jamie's flesh and weight and ardor, and so urgently wanted him to be Jamie that I had succeeded for an instant in thinking that he was, only to be crushed like a grape at the realization that he wasn't, all my soft insides spurting out. Had he felt or thought the same things, waking to find me there beside him?

I hope I don't," she said. "But she said—Laoghaire—" She stumbled on the name. "L'heery," Ian corrected.

I wish Jane would haunt me." The words weren't much above a whisper, but I heard it clearly enough, and my heart clenched. The memory of that sort of wish—the bone-deep need to have contact of any sort, a longing that harrowed the soul, a hollowness that could never be filled—struck me so hard that I couldn't speak.

I felt sick when I thought of the end—but I really wanted to remember how. How it felt, and how I did it, so maybe I can do it again, with Roger.

we must not speak of him; we must let him be forgotten. 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.

Diana Gabaldon

was remote, even for a Highland farm. No real roads led there, but the post still reached us by messenger, over the crags and the heather-clad slopes, a connection with the world outside. It was a world that sometimes seemed unreal in memory