Quotes About Memory

The best advice I have for all my teachers during a test is to pass the test out as fast as possible before I forget everything.

I thought of you today. I saw a cockroach and you crossed my mind. I stepped on it.

A police officer asked me where I was between 4 and 5? I said kindergarten.

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother took me to see him in a department store, and he asked for my autograph.

Blue punch buggie!

Females : they hate it when you ask their age, but they'll kill you if you forget their birthday.

People change and forget to tell each other.

Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory.

Memory can make a thing seem to have been much more than it was.

I'm writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you've done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God's grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all, and it may seem to you to be no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind. If only I had the words to tell you.

But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long.

I wish I could leave you certain of the images in my mind, because they are so beautiful that I hate to think they will be extinguished when I am. Well, but again, this life has its own mortal loveliness. And memory is not strictly mortal in its nature, either. It is a strange thing, after all, to be able to return to a moment, when it can hardly be said to have any reality at all, even in its passing. A moment is such a slight thing. I mean, that its abiding is a most gracious reprieve.

Memory is the sense of loss, and loss pulls us after it.

Cum se numea dr?cia aceea frumoas? ?i minunat? ?i nenorocit? ?i caraghioas?, format? de ani, pe care am tr?it-o eu?

?i-am l?sat vorb? în amintirea mea, m?car la soroace mai mari, universul întreg s? fie dat lumii de poman?.

Cum am s?rutat prima fat? -asta a fost demult-, n-am sim?it decât un gust de carne. Un gust de mân?. Parc? s?rutasem o mân? în plus. Abia dup? vreo dou? zile m-a apucat o fericire. A?a din senin.

Vorbe, chipul meu de-acum Vor r?mâne-n voi m?car Cât r?mâne apa m?rii În n?vodul de pescar Cum adun comori pira?ii În vreo pe?ter? grozav? - Am c?rat în voi întruna Saci cu timp ?i l?zi cu slav?. Iar când v-am umplut de stele – Tot mai nes?tul de buchii Mi-am vârât în voi fiin?a Îndesând-o cu genunchii.

Nu ?tiu de ce mi s-a f?cut dor de-un c?r?bu?.

My first paintings were of my dreams. They were more real to me than the reality I was living in--I didn't like my reality. I remember waking up, and the memory of my dreams was so strong that I would write them down, and then I would paint them, in just two very particular colors, a deep green and a night blue. Never anything else.

I always sent my mother all these huge books I made. When my mother died, I was cleaning her cupboard, and these big books were only 20 pages long. She edited out, maybe burned, every single photograph where I'm naked.

Only the image of my father is unclear, as if something obscure but vital has been blotted out, and only the raging surface is left. Who is he, this man whom I have known and not known all my life?

Ukraina: he sighs, breathing in the remembered scent of mown hay and cherry blossom. But I catch the distinct synthetic whiff of New Russia. Her

Each tombstone was like the cover of a book that had been sealed forever.

When the things you love exist only inside your memory they cannot be destroyed or taken from you.