Quotes About Memory

Here is a shared memory that we didn't share, forgot to share, for almost ninety years.

History is no more than memories refreshed.

The only history that matters is the history we know.

History is only a catalogue of the forgotten.

When the history of our times is written, will we be remembered as the generation that turned our backs in a moment of global crisis or will it be recorded that we did the right thing?

The historian does simply not come in to replenish the gaps of memory. He constantly challenges even those memories that have survived intact.

The one who does not remember history is bound to live through it again

History is often not what actually happened but what is recorded as such.

Our task is not to leave a record of what happened on this date for those who will inherit the Earth; history will take care of that.

History is no more fixed and dead than the future. The past is no further away than the last breath you took.

Why write about the past? Well, there's more of it.

History's like a story in a way: it depends on who's telling it.

No generation can escape history.

History will only ever be partial, to a large extent history tells us what we think should be remembered and what should be forgotten, I find that really problematic.

History ... may be regarded as an artificial extension and : broadening of our memories and may be used to overcome the natural bewilderment of all unfamiliar situations.

No matter how vital experience might be while you lived it, no sooner was it ended and dead than it became as lifeless as the piles of dry dust in a school history book.

If the September 11 terror attack is supposed to constitute a caesura in world history, it must be able to stand comparison to other events of world historical impact.

History breaks down into images, not into stories.

The past in the hands of historians is not what it was.

History repeats itself over and over again, but most of us have short memories.

Somewhere, all the people we have loved and lost are still among us, in the house that we call history.

They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again.

The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.

I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.