Quotes About Memory

There may well be no deliberate deception involved, just what is known as confabulation, where a subject becomes talkative, in an attempt to fill any awkward silences.

I wanted to be alone, not forgotten.

Memories seem to be stored using a variety of mysterious principles, so that you have to circle around and around, through misty clouds of association, before you can relocate some missing piece. It is easy to persuade yourself of the truth of something for which the only evidence is a strong urge to believe. Douglas

There is no truth. Life is just a series of coincidences, accidents and random urges which we carefully forge – for our own, sick reasons – into a convenient design. Everything is arbitrary. Only art exists to make the arbitrary congeal. Not memory or God or love, even. Only art. The truth is simply an idea, a structure which we employ – in very small doses – to render life bearable. It's just a convenient mechanism.

Your humble correspondent bids you to remember the road to Lindum and our conversation about the brightest bead of all. He is everywhere.

Whatever she did she would find herself thinking of people who weren't there.

She imagined Begu's mother, Enynny and Ennynny's mother, and her mother before her, back into memory, sitting here by the ferns drinking the cold, minty water, and talking quietly in British. So many. All gone into the mist. She felt a twist inside, a longing for a family and home that never was.

All the things that make you you, your clarity and solidity and certainty, come from this. You can actually reach out and touch your past. It's in the wood, in the cold, clear water of the fjord and the hard rock of the mountain. And the wood and the fjord and the mountain are in you, clear and strong and massive." She looked at me then, reached out to trace the line of my cheekbone, my nose, my jaw. "Aud, Aud, Aud.

I studied her, one bare foot tucked underneath her, the other swinging back and forth, and remembered the scent of sleepy, naked woman.

Hild had forgotten. She was twelve years old.

Her knuckles smelled of garlic and, faintly, that sleepy, buttery-toast scent my brain was already beginning to recognize.

All their memories interlock and look down the same path to the same places. Each memory reflects another, repeats, reinforces until the known becomes the only.

There are always people missing. And sometimes I see their ghosts.

Ah, she'd forgotten that. Well, the child needed reminding sometimes.

His eyes were hazed with memory, the way I imagined the blue glass of a doll's might look if it had been left for too long on an abandoned nursery, light streaming pitilessly through bare windows until the cheap glass clouded and cracked. Had he seen Kick's illness right from the beginning and decided it was too hard?

Nothing but the sigh of embers into ash.

She walked alone in the rain, half mad with trying not to remember the soft warmth of Onnen's motherly breast and the smell of her clothes, trying not to think of the glint of firelight on Begu's escaping hair because then she'd remember it always, one more meory to torment her.

She felt once again Angharad's breath on her cheek-Red is your colour-and that first cool kiss of the dream lake.

More and more now she could tell the difference between what was real and what was a mix of memory and nightmare; more and more she felt sure that if she spoke she would be speaking to the living, not ghosts.

Her childhood, her life, and she kept forgetting; her mother's geas kept taking it away. Then she was thinking of her mother, seeing her in the clearing on one of her good days, forget-me-not eyes dancing with light. Mother? She listened. Nothing.

She would have to remember that those who weren't used to her, or who hadn't been around her for a while, saw the legend first: twice uncanny. Wielder of wyrd, dealer of death, the king's seer.

I'm not pretty." "You don't need to be pretty. You're like lightning. Like a tide. Like a blizzard." "Something to run from." "Something to get caught up in. Somthing to remember for the rest of your life.

A memory of stretching like a dog, the push of feet on turf and flash of teeth flicked across her mind like a leaf on a gust of wind. She tried to catch it back, but it was gone.

No one but a lover should ever see such an expression, and then only fleetingly, yet here it was, captured forever.