Quotes About Memory

As I walked down the extremely narrow hall of my not-so-mobile home, passing over the pale yellow linoleum curling up so that it no longer reached the thin blond paneling of either wall, I remembered the plush two-story brick home Susan and I had shared in North Atlanta. It was nice. Very nice. But this impoverished place and the fringe existence I was now living here felt more like home.

Alice in Wonderland was right: you do have to move twice as fast to stay in the same place, and when you're old, you're too slow to do it and so you lose ground. The future vanishes. You can't remember what you should do tomorrow and then you can't remember what you did today. And in the end all you have is long ago.

Our brains are wired in such a way that we can forget, so we don't all end up eating the barrel of a gun.

Human beings are made to forget things, otherwise they couldn't tolerate the pain of life. They say that time heals, but it's not time, it's some inner power all people have.

Time is the enemy of identity

Memories must somehow be represented physically in the brain. Brain chemistry and structure is altered by experience and the stability of these physicochemical changes presumably corresponds to the retention duration of memory.

She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.

For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell.

Já vím, kamaráde. Snažím se tohle všechno nezapomínat, ale je to stejn? snadné jako sprchovat slona ve van?." "Hezká p?edstava, ale já mám spíš dojem, že sprchujeme hejno opic.

Mai e ceaiul, spuse Lily Sexton. Niciodat? s? nu ui?i de ceai.

Eighty miles an hour, velocity becomes the measure of our progress, the speed of forgetting.

What if I forget her voice?' Sara said. 'You won't,' I said. 'You sound just like her.

A story is time itself, boxed and compressed.

Someday, of course, she would light out on her own, following her own riverbed, and though we'd follow as long as she allowed, and though we trusted she'd come and go from our lives with regularity, she would also be a half memory [...]

Here's how you think about it: Together you constructed many things throughout your life. Then her body disappeared, but the constructions still remain. Human beings die: That's natural. But to accept her death is to lose all hope.

I wonder why things always seem most real to us when we lose them, he said softly.

Closing his eyes, he feels the weight of the angel as she straddles his thighs. She leans forward, her breath on his cheek, her lips close to his ear, whispering, 'Remember your promise.

She is more memory than reality. She belongs to a time of teenage crushes, first kisses, crowded lecture halls and smoky pubs. Even if she had lived, we might have had nothing in common except the past.

When I write things down, I own them. They're no longer hanging in mid-air like cartoon bubbles or wisps of smoke. They're made real. Solid. Conversation doesn't last. Spoken words fade. We stop listening. Forget.

She looked over a shoulder, a gesture he would never get over, a moment fixed in his mind—the perfection of her skin, the music in her laughter; her eyes brown in places that brown could only dream of reaching. And he knew at that precise moment that he would always yearn for Belita, whether they spent their lives together or if they parted that evening and he never saw her again.

I did that," says my memory. "I could not have done that," says my pride, and remains inexorable. Eventually—??the memory yields. Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Tell me what you can't forget, and I'll tell you who you are." —Julie Buntin, Marlena

I did that," says my memory. "I could not have done that," says my pride, and remains inexorable. Eventually—??the memory yields.

The university should not be a cloister; it should be a laboratory that creates habits of action through inquiry laced with compassion, memory, and fidelity.