Quotes About Memory

What a perfect escape the return to the womb was. Better by far than Religion or Art or the South Sea Islands. It was so snug and warm there, and the feeding was automatic. Everything perfect in that hotel. No wonder the memory of those accommodations lingered in the blood and nerves of everyone. It was dark, yes, but what a warm, rich darkness. The grave wasn't in it. No wonder one fought so desperately against being evicted when the nine months' lease was up.

The Past lies upon the Present like a giant's dead body.

Time flies over us, but leaves it shadow behind.

We became a tribe recalling the founding two. Ducked in thru a door, we ate food from Reunion, island in an ocean some- where, we forgot which, ducked in, not a trace of them there. . . We clutched bodies, rubbed each other's limbs, less in love with skin than the memory of skin, skin's image, all the more extolling skin. . . Sexed insinuance, nixed insistence in retreat. . . Would-be what-if, what if. . . We wanted it back, big promise, portent, apocalypse, urgency, plummet, plunge

Nod house turned into shout house. In the shout house memory said shut up. It said silence, misery said amen, the mule's head meant my stubborn lungs. . . I stood imagining I fell back dreaming, stuck tongue stuck in my jaw broke my jaw

That 'me' is becoming a memory, too.

The living mourn the dead for a time but they forget about them as days pass. The living are so selfish, so spoilt, so taken with the very act of living that they don't remember long.

for societies are built as much on what people choose to forget as what they remember

In some precious and personal moments there are brief, sudden surges of recognition of an immortal insight, a doctrinal deja vu. These flashes from the mirror of memory can remind us and inspire us, especially in the midst of life's taxing telestial traffic jams, which can otherwise cause us to grow weary and faint in our minds.

We will bring Adolf Eichmann to Jerusalem," Harel said, striking the table, "and perhaps the world will be reminded of its responsibilities. It will be recognized that, as a people, we never forgot. Our memory reaches back through recorded history. The memory book lies open, and the hand still writes.

Our memory reaches back through recorded history. The memory book lies open, and the hand still writes.

He held the post until the end of the war, an end that Leif Tronstad did not see for himself.

You will find that your taste buds have a memory of about 3 weeks.

Redemption means that God can in a moment "weave" into your memory the awareness of His presence.

Everyone is guilty of something, and everyone still harbors a memory of childhood innocence, no matter how many layers of life wrap around it. Humanity is innocent; humanity is guilty, and both states are undeniably true.

Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.

That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed.

Is it fair to have given us the memory of what was and the desire of what could be when we must suffer what is?

To a degree that would be astonishing in the United States, Vietnamese in all walks of life could recite long passages from poems, recount folktales and legends, and discuss novels thirty years old as if the characters lived next door.

Are you in here for an actual reason? CARTER Pretty much. I don't remember what it is, but I'm sure I had one when I started down the hall … TOM Perfect. CARTER Oh, yeah, now I recall . Because I was bored in my office … (Beat.) Plus, you have nicer windows. TOM Feel free to open one and jump … LaBute, Neil (2004-11-29). Fat Pig: A Play (pp. 18-19). Faber & Faber. Kindle Edition.

Time is a gypsy caravan Steals away in the night To leave you stranded in dreamland Distance is a long-range filter Memory a flickering light Left behind in the heartland

Thoreau, "At death, our friends and relatives either draw nearer to us, and are found out, or depart farther from us, and are forgotten.

Whatever is left behind in the passing of a rare talent, so much is always lost.

We do not refuse to remember; neither do we find it exactly useless to remember. Rather, we are being rendered unfit to remember. For if remembering is to be something more than nostalgia, it requires a contextual basis—a theory, a vision, a metaphor— something within which facts can be organized and patterns discerned.