Quotes About Memory

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory —

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,But for our grief, as if it had not been,And grief itself be mortal!

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

Forget the dead, the past? O yet there are ghosts that may take revenge for it, memories that make the heart a tomb, regrets which gild thro' the spirit's gloom, and with ghastly whispers tell that joy, once lost, is pain.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

When the storm-cloud that lowers o'er the daybeam is gone, Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine; When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan, She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may last! ? Percy Bysshe Shelley, from "Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats," Adonaïs: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, Author of Endymion, Hyperion, etc . (1821)

Yes! all is past — swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.

Grief returns with the revolving year. - Adonais

Like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. - Adonais

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

Music, When Soft Voices Die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

To express nostalgia for a childhood we no longer share is to deny the actual significance and humanity of children.

Drinking responsibly' doesn't have to mean not drinking enough. It can mean having a bit of self-respect, a bigger, better laugh while you're drinking and a clearer memory of it the next morning. Maybe

No one mentions that now, and I suppose no one is inclined to bring it up, particularly not my father, who in other matters loves those things most that he can no longer touch or see, things washed clean of flaws and ambiguity by the years he has held them in his memory, reshaping them as he brings them out, again and again, telling his stories until finally the stories, and the things in them, are as perfect and sharp as the edge of the knife he keeps in his pocket.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if remembering unfinished conversations, and then went back to place some damp, slow-burning turf on the fire.

You lived in the present, but that present always contained a past, some image of a ruined paradise.

How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on.

The dead live in our memories.

I suppose if we forgot stuff we'll never know we forgot it, because we won't remember

Is it possible to have some kind of genetic memory of a place where you've never lived, but your ancestors have? Or am I just a sentimental fool, my judgement fuddled by nostalgia, Guinness, and the romance of the diaspora?

Another clue that we are in a flashback occurs when we notice that our emotional reactions are out of proportion to what has triggered them.

aprendemos que los flashbacks pueden causar que olvidemos que nuestros aliados probados todavía son de hecho fiables.

Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.