Quotes About Memory

Aveva sbattuto le palpebre, come se non fosse sicura di dov'era, né di essere chi era. Però riconobbe me, e mi sorrise. Per te non significa niente - ma per un uomo, a volte, un bagliore nella pupilla della persona amata può valere più di tutto. Capisci? Ha riconosciuto me prima di se stessa. Io testimoniavo che lei era viva, che lei esisteva - che è esistita.

And no, I am not capable of experiencing the present with the same sort of attention to detail. But once the present becomes the past I seem to have no problem attending to it obsessively. : )

It seems like we've gotten to the point where our experiences, our memories--our entire lives, actually--aren't real unless we post about them online. I wonder if we might miss the days of being unreasonable.

I'd never forget the smell of the orchard. It was imprinted on me like the scent of my mother's Aliage perfume. Overly sweet, musty, blossomy, leaves-turning, fruit-ripening.

Information, as narrowly defined by Shannon, concerns the predictability of a message source. In the real world, however, information is something that is analyzed for meaning, that is remembered and combined with other information, and that produces results or actions. In short, information is processed via computation.

Memory is a funny thing. It tricks you into believing that you've forgotten important moments, and then when you're raking your brain for a bit of information that might make sense of something else, it taps you on the head and says, "Remember when you told me to put that memory in the green rubbish bin? Well, I didn't, I put it in the black recycling tub, and it's coming your way again.

Someone asked us later, "Didn't you wonder why no one came across you sooner?" Did I wonder? When you see your parents zipped up in black body bags on the Jellicoe Road like they're some kind of garbage, don't you know? Wonder dies.

See, I remember love. That's what people don't understand.

women are elephants and watch the way you say that in front of them because they'll think you're calling them fat and there's no coming back from that moment. But they hoard. They say they don't, but they do. We think that if something's not spoken about again, it goes away. It doesn't. Nothing goes away just like that...

I still wake with your name on my lips every morning.

What happens when she's not my memory anymore? What happens when she's not around to tell me about his belt leaving scars across my two-year-old brother's face or when he whacked her so hard that she lost her hearing for a week? Who'll be my memory?" Santangelo doesn't miss a beat. "I will. Ring me." "Same," Raffy says. I look at him. I can't even speak because if I do I know I'll cry but I smile and he knows what I'm thinking.

You list the dead. You tell the stories of the past. You write about the catastrophes and the massacres. What about the living, Finnikin? Who honors them?

About my first memory, sitting on the shoulders of a giant who I know can only be my father. Of touching the sky. Of lying between two people who read me stories of wild things and journeys with dragons, the soft hum of their voices speaking of love and serenity. See, I remember love.

The king died last. They made him watch and what he did to those princesses and his queen I will never repeat as long as I live. But Isaboe knows, for she walked the sleep of a monster who was witness to it, and if I could have one wish in my life," he said through gritted teeth, "it would be that I could tear from her mind the memory such depravity. Sweet Goddess, that I would have such a gift. I would give my life for it." And then he was sobbing, despairing at his uselessness.

Japan." Not about the Japanese, but about moments of perfection. Commit it to memory and make good use of it. Because if I come home and you're still pining over this little girl without having given her a chance, I will call you a chicken shit for the rest of your life.

And if I could bottle the look on his face, I'd keep it by my bedside for the rest of my life.

he wanted to be all poetic, but in an instant he forgot Joe's poem about Japan except the part about 'you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,' and a new sound entered his life...

The boy in the tree sobs uncontrollably when I tell him about the Hermit and my mother, yet his eyes light up each time I mention Hannah. And every single time he asks, "Taylor, what about the Brigadier who came searching for you that day? Whatever became of him?" I try to explain that the Brigadier is of no importance to my story, but he always shakes his head as if he knows better.

My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die. I counted. It happened on the Jellicoe Road. The prettiest road I'd ever seen, where the trees made breezy canopies like a tunnel to Shangri-la.

Hannah's house has been unfinished ever since I can remember. Deep down I think that's always been a comfort to me, because people don't leave unfinished houses.

She was the most beautiful woman in the world. If she was alive I'd probably be a better person.

Was. What does was actually mean? The verb to be. Past tense of is. Does it mean that someone is no longer being?

and if I could bottle the look on his face, i'd keep it by my bedside for the rest of my life.

Not about the Japanese, but about moments of perfection. commit it to memory and make good use of it.