Quotes About Memory

You won't forget that," Claire assured her. "I like things written down," Tabitha mumbled. "Then you've got them for good.

Ci sono cose. Piccole cose che non dimenticherò, che sono niente e invece restano più forti di tutto.

Margaret Mazzantini

He (Friedrich Engel de Jánosis) stated clearly that he was the last Engel de Jánosis, when in fact he knew he was not. He left behind his mother, wife, and daughter, all of them Engel de Jánosis. And then there were the Hungarian Engel de Jánosis, his aunts, uncles, cousins still alive in Pécs and in other towns and villages in Hungary. He knew this. They were not dead, not yet anyway, but in his mind, they were. Already, the historian was rewriting history.

At which point exactly does the past give way to the present, and does time ever intersect? Through years of occupations, this house on Rákóczi út was forced to give way to new inhabitants. Just by being here, standing here in from of this house, we are bringing them all back, through memory.

Look at me. You are the first person to ask about him. Do you understand? No one has ever asked about this man, your relative, Richard. No one has called him down. No one ever printed out his name. You are responsible now. You must remember him in order to honor him.

I am not just what I remember. I am also what I dream.

I love watching Daddy play with Sara. I remember exactly how it felt to hold Daddy's hand when I was little. You could show me the hands of a thousand men and I could pick out my Daddy's, no problem.

My grandmothers were strong. They followed plows and bent to toil. They moved through fields sowing seed. They touched the earth and grain grew. They were full of sturdiness and singing. My grandmothers were strong. My grandmothers were full of memories Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay With veins rolling roughly over quick hands They have many clean words to say. My grandmothers were strong. Why am I not as they?

If we knew how to find the lost, we would know how to rediscover the parts of our minds left behind in battle.

I feel like... the boy lost somewhere between the torment of memory and a few fragile shards of hope.

No matter how invisible I feel, I will always be wrapped in the memory of life as a captive. —Quebrado

Grandmother Hannah comes to me at Pesach and when I am lighting the sabbath candles. The sweet wine in the cup has her breath.... a little winter no spring can melt.

I realized Grant would not say kaddish for her, so I did, for the next year. As I was reciting the words, which were nonsense to me, day after day, just rhythmic syllables, I began to realize I needed to learn Hebrew. It was maddening and embarrassing that I had no idea at all what I was saying every day, facing east and thinking of my mother whose face I would never see again except in dreams -- in dreams again and again.

In the death of every creature we have loved, we taste our own.

Writing sometimes feels frivolous and sometimes sacred, but memory is one of my strongest muses. I serve her with my words. So long as people read, those we love survive however evanescently. As do we writers, saying with our life's work, Remember . Remember us. Remember me.

Writing is a futile attempt to preserve what disappears moment by moment.

The cork had come out with a ghost of a pop; it was a beautiful sound, regretful, grateful, kind. "There

It had been so long since I'd written, really written, that I'd forgotten what it felt like--how it changed things, shifted everything. I'd forgotten how writing surprises you--how you sit down feeling one thing and come out feeling another--and that I'd never heard my dad's voice in my head like this before, never known I could feel this close to him again, that this letter from him might ever exist. But here it was.

If grief had a permanence, then didn't also love?

As far as I'm concerned it's the other way round. We repeat what we remember. Only forgetfulness sets us free.

...as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.

as long as nothing happens between them, the memory is cursed with what hasn't happened.

When it's in a book I don't think it'll hurt any more ...exist any more. One of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.