Quotes About Memory

Du trauerst nicht um deinen Vater? - Doch. Ich betrauere, dass ich nie den Vater kennengelernt habe, von dem mir alle erzählen.

Lo guardavo dalla finestra e mi tornava in mente una storia che una volta mi aveva raccontato su un grosso serpente in cui gli uomini del nord credono, la cui brama è quella di divorare il mondo." Ricordavo anche io quella storia. Alla fine, il serpente divora se stesso.

HE WEEPS as he lifts me onto our bed. My corpse sags; it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth.

De pronto, todos recordamos haber oído hablar de su piel dorada y sus ojos negros y centelleantes como la obsidiana que trocábamos por nuestras olivas. Y en ese momento, ella valió más que todos los presentes apilados en el centro, y aún más, ella valía más que nuestras vidas

Ma dernière pensée est pour Achille.

A mio padre non è mai riuscito di immaginare il mondo privo della sua presenza.

No tengo otro recuerdo de mi madre y es tan perfecto que estoy casi convencido de que es fruto de mi imaginación.

You care more for him in death than in life.

We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?' He smiles. 'Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.

Sevmemi? olanlar, hayatlar? ac? ve deh?etle geçmi? olanlar içinse insan?n içip unutabilece?i kara nehir Lethe vard?. Bir parça teselli.

La fama sigue cursos extraños: la de unos aumenta al morir y la de otros se desvanece. —El itacense abre las manazas—. Es imposible decir quién va a sobrevivir al holocausto de la memoria.

As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. 'Patroclus,' he said. He was always better with words than I.

I found his hair between my fingers.

i do not know this man, i think. he is no one i have ever seen before.

his beautiful body lost to bones and gray ash.

True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another." He spread his broad hands. "We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory.

alt?n gibi parl?yor olsa da ate?ini akl?ndan ç?karma

i would know him in death, at the end of the world

It was true what they had been saying: if people remember you, then you're not dead. It was very comforting.

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness.

Next winter and next winter and next winter. In the mind they passed all slowly, like clouds across a summer sky, but a sudden call or turn of the head and they disappeared in a rush, shuttling quickly one after the last till nothing was left but a strangeness in the mind, a drop of thought that trembled and was gone, perhaps.

The past is never really gone. It's always with us, shaping who we are.

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. Then what resentful wonder, and what half-aimless seeking. It is a silly state of affairs. It is a silly creature that tries to get a smile from even the most familiar and loving shadow. Comical and hopeless, the long gaze back is always turned inward.

Albion Park on a fierce spring morning. A mad March day of ice and fire. Thomas's feet beat a tattoo on the path. Every hair, every bristle on his chin stands on end. He is a small star-ship of blazing neurons- He is a librarian on his way to work, half-blind with sun and cold and memory.