Quotes About Memory

Anyone who does not feel sufficiently strong in memory should not meddle with lying.

The world changes too fast. You take your eyes off something that's always been there, and the next minute it's just a memory.

The story of a life can be as long or as short as the teller wishes. Whether the life is tragic or enlightened, the classic gravestone inscription marking simply the dates of birth and death has, in its brevity, much to recommend it.

it isn't the future but past that kills you, that comes back to torment and undermine you, and effectively ends up killing you.

A life lived in pursuit of a goal leaves little time for reminiscence.

Una vida volcada hacia una meta deja poco sitio para el recuerdo

Vuelve a acordarte, una vez más, de tu entrada en el campo de batalla.

Olvidamos ciertas cosas, las olvidamos de verdad; nos equivocamos de medio a medio suponiendo que todo se conserva en el santuario de la memoria; algunos acontecimientos, incluso diría que la mayoría, se borran por completo, no queda la menor huella, y es exactamente como si nunca hubieran ocurrido.

Je me suis souvenue, dit Cécile, que dans le temps tu recopiais des phrases sur un cahier, des phrases d'écrivains, celles que tu trouvais les plus belles.

La nostalgia no es un sentimiento estético, ni siquiera está ligada al recuerdo de la felicidad, se siente nostalgia de un lugar simplemente porque uno ha vivido ahí, poco importa si bien o mal; el pasado siempre es bonito, y también el futuro, solo duele el presente y cargamos con él como un absceso de sufrimiento que nos acompaña entre dos infinitos de apacible felicidad

Como una planta de maíz arrancada de su terreno, Una vieja concha olvidada por el mar, A orillas de la vida Me vuelvo hacia ti, que te atreviste a amarme Ven conmigo, partamos, me gustaría reencontrar Las huellas de la noche

Al considerar el pasado siempre se tiene la impresión — probablemente falsa — de un cierto determinismo.

Vuelve a acordarte, una vez más, de tu entrada en el campo de batalla».

I've lived so little that I tend to imagine I'm not going to die; it seems improbable that human existence can be reduced to so little; one imagines, in spite of oneself, that sooner or later something is bound to happen. A big mistake. A life can just as well be both empty and short. The days slip by indifferently, leaving neither trace nor memory; and then all of a sudden they stop.

No es el futuro sino el pasado el que te mata, el que vuelve, el que te atormenta y socava y acaba efectivamente contigo.

Le lien a tenu. Rien ne pouvait le rompre. Mon deuil s'est poursuivi avec l'infinie lenteur du souvenir qui s'enfonce dans la mémoire. Mais j'ai recommencé à tourner les yeux vers l'avenir. J'ai accordé plus d'attention, et plus d'amour aux vivants.

Acaba büyüdüÄŸüm için miydi? Eskiden ayn? yerlerde toplad???m mantarlar galiba bugünkülerden çok daha güzeldi. GeçmiÅŸin yald?zl? sisleri, en basit ÅŸeyleri mükemmele dönüÅŸtürüyorsunuz!" O, ErmiÅŸler Bayram? Mantarlar?

I know well that, at this hour, I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live by; nay, it were easier to forget the food, which only nourishes by body miserably, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul, filling the one and the other with such sweetness that neither weariness nor fear of death is felt by me while memory preserves you to my mind. Think, if the eyes could also enjoy their portion, in what condition I should find myself.

The memory brought back the timbre of her voice and the tickle of her hair on my chin as I put her to bed that night and the feeling of belonging to someone, mattering to someone, having someone whose first smile in the morning was for you. Someone who slipped their hand into yours when they were scared and trusted you to make them feel better. Someone who knew you, the important things about you, and loved you anyway.

while you try to reconcile the place before you with the place in your memory,

The past was not always past enough here. It was like living in a house acquired for its clean angles and gleaming appliances, and discovering a bricked-up foor at which, faint but insistent, the sound of knocking could be heard.

She had almost reached the cafe before Céleste identified Pippa, imposterish without beret and lampshade dress, her iPod shining through her pocket. At the time, it was merely something else unexpected, an element of the mildly extraordinary evening. But long after the open windows and the tiny running children had vanished, that memory of Pippa would persist. She made her way towards Céleste like a citizen of the future, her heart rectangular and glowing in the dusk.

Only a sentimental being would care about such everyday things—things used and discarded by the humans of their respective eras without thought, yet kept and preserved by an immortal who never forgot them. An immortal who loved and cared for them, dusting them off for an eternity, keeping their dead spirits as alive as he—stuck in their immortal tomb never to find the rest everything must eventually seek. Time had no meaning in this cavern of infinite age.

such a short time. I am about to tell our barker,