Quotes About Memory

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History attempts to provide society with an artificial collective memory.

As psychologist James Hillman reminds us, "Our lives are determined less by our childhood than by the traumatic way we have learned to remember our childhoods.

Plato called this anamnesis, remembering what and who we are, beneath our lives' shifting camouflage, beyond what can be taken away.

Like many of those who document history, he also curated the images of the past he left behind.

Para nosotros ningún momento es completo en sí mismo. Cada momento se ve adulterado, empañado por lo que recordamos que ha sido y lo que anticipamos que será. En cada momento de nuestra vida la flecha del tiempo nos mantiene inocentes y moribundos, y por eso creemos que somos superiores a los demás animales.

The most important way of remembering someone is by being the person they made us — at least in part — and living the life they have helped shape. Sometimes they are not worth remembering. In that case, our most important existential task is to expunge them from the narrative of our lives. But when they are worth remembering, then being someone they have helped fashion and living a life they have helped forge are not only how we remember them they are how we honour them.

You can't just shove the past aside. It stays with you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.

I lost my father this past year, and the word feels right because I keep looking for him. As if he were misplaced. As if he could just turn up, like a sock or a set of keys.

a moment in the past, like a bone in the throat, that needed his attention.

There are times in every life when the past acquires a particular resonance, when we grow sensitive to sounds and voices normally beyond the range of hearing. The past shades into present always and everywhere, but only rarely do we acknowledge the process; only rarely does some trigger force us to recognize ourselves as citizens of that frontier.

The past is another country, but the Seventies is another planet.

Now you invent the boat of your flesh and set it upon the watersand drift in the gradual swell, in the laboring salt.Now you look down. The waters of childhood are there.

Will the same day ever come back, and with it Our amazement at having been in it, or will only a dark haze Spread at the back of the mind, erasing events, one after The other, so brief they may have been lost to begin with?

These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

Some loves never die.

For the eight thousand Italian Jews who could not be saved. For the millions taken slave by the Nazi war machine, and the countless who did not make it home. And for Robert Dehlendorf, who heard the tale first, and rescued me.

the world. They died in the 1980s.

mind long after he couldn't see them anymore. His urge was to go after the

Malia said, "And where were you when the mortar hit?" The rapture drained out of the corporal's face. His face clouded. His hand dropped from his heart and grabbed the bottle of honey wine. After pouring a generous slug into his mouth, he swallowed it, shivered, and stared at them all with a haunted expression. "Stalingrad," he said. "The Elbow of the Don.

Forgotten Front." Much of the amnesia was caused by Italians who'd

Pino took one last look at the Beltraminis before walking south toward the telephone exchange, feeling like the blast had cut out part of his heart.