Quotes About Memory

Do you remember?' Someone's always asking and someone else, always does

Maybe all over the world there were daughters who knew their mothers as young girls and old women, inside and out, deep. I wasn't one of them. Even when I was a baby, my memory of her is being only halfway here.

Would the tragic comedy of memory ever stop replaying?

How amazing these words are that slowly come to me. How wonderfully on and on they go. Will the words end, I ask whenever I remember to. Nope, my sister says, all of five years old now, and promising me infinity.

After the chicken is fried and wrapped in wax paper, tucked gently into cardboard shoe boxes and tied with string... After the corn bread is cut into wedges, the peaches washed and dried... After the sweet tea is poured into mason jars twisted tight and the deviled eggs are scooped back inside their egg-white beds slipped into porcelain bowls that are my mother's now, a gift her mother sends with her on the journey...

And when she says, I love you, too the South is so heavy in her mouth my eyes fill up with the missing of everything and everyone I've ever known.

the South is so heavy in her mouth my eyes fill up with the missing of everything and everyone I've ever known.

You know what, Daddy? What you got for me, Melody? This place feels like from a long time ago. It feels like it's in the past tense.

But what I know now is this: Look at your grandmother's face. Remember the lines. Touch her cheekbones. Hold the memory of her in your fingers, in your eyes, in your mind. It might be all you get to keep.

When I sit down beside my mother, she shivers. When I touch Ellie's shoulders, she smiles like she knows it's me. Maybe she does. Who could have told me that the wind was some passed-on soul stopping to touch your face, your hands, your hair. Who knew a surprising cool breeze was someone who had gone before you saying, 'You're loved.

As we dance, I am not Melody, I am a narrative, someone's almost forgotten story. Remembered.

know now that what is tragic isn't the moment. It is the memory.

Feels like a long time ago, but not so far in the past that I don't remember the way that Chicago cold slipped past your bones, I swear. That wind coming off the water? What?!

Our land moved in grassy waves toward the water. The land ended at the water. Maybe my mother had forgotten this. And kept on walking.

what I'm remembering now is her smile, the way she turned it on people and seemed to make them stutter. I was nineteen and had zero idea what this meant—this power, this deep confidence

But on paper, things can live forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies.

In the future he would remember to be kinder to her clothing... provided she didn't look so damn good in them.

When someone you love that much leaves you behind there isn't as much of you left to die when your own time comes.

Le premier symbole où nous reconnaissons l'humanité dans ses vestiges est la sépulture, et le truchement de la mort se reconnaît en toute relation où l'homme vient à la vie de son histoire.

You go down to the bottom of the sea, where the water isn't even blue anymore, where the sky is only a memory, and you float there, in the silence. And you stay there, and you decide, that you'll die for them. Only then do they start coming out. They come, and they greet you, and they judge the love you have for them. If it's sincere, if it's pure, they'll be with you, and take you away forever.

After work he often called me to talk about this and that, or because he'd forgotten a word or the title of a book, or to ask me a question, such as: 'How can I keep brown rice from tasting like shrimp shells?

J'ai reconnu le bonheur au bruit qu'il a fait en partant

Paris at Night Trois allumettes une à une allumées dans la nuit La première pour voir ton visage tout entier La seconde pour voir tes yeux La dernière pour voir ta bouche Et l'obscurité tout entière pour me rappeler tout cela En te serrant dans mes bras

Lark of memory it is your blood that is flowing and not mine Lark of memory I have tightened my fist Lark of memory dead bird of mist you should not have come to eat from my hand the grains of oblivion.