Quotes About Memory

Creo que lo único que quieres hacer cuando realmente has amado algo es transmitir su recuerdo a otros.

This is grief. You feel ripped in half. Half of you wanting to retreat, to disappear, to find a place where no one asks questions. And then there's the part of you that wants to remember, has to remember because if you don't, not only will the day cease to exist but so will the reality of that moment.

We are what We have lost

We are what We have lost ? Alex Kuo

She recalls the smell of bologna, the slimy, metallic taste of it on her tongue. Not for the first time she decides to become a vegetarian.

Visual tasks, emotionally laden experiences, and procedural memories (for example, hard-to-describe skills like riding a bike) tend to be consolidated during REM sleep, while declarative memories (things like lists of words) are consolidated during slow-wave sleep.

Like I said about Freaked, people tend to find these films, and I think that in the end the cool thing about a movie is that it can be sort of burnt temporarily, but then it's burnt into the fabric of your culture.

Like first love — or heartbreak — the first government you learn to know stays with you.

The Newspeak word blackwhite] means a loyal willingness to say that black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also the ability to believe that black is white, and more, to know that black is white, and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This demands a continuous alteration of the past […][5] (George Orwell, 1984)

1. Sometimes music is needed. 2. Sometimes silence. 3. A novel, like all written things, is a piece of music, the language demanding you make a sound as you read it. Writing one, then, is like remembering a song you've never heard before.

Sometimes, I think I know what my grandparents were listening for. Sound waves don't ever go away. Not one sound goes away. The wave simply expands, infinitely. The sound remains. Imagine a cosine arc the size of Jupiter, and that might be the size of the wave of the last thing Peter ever said. I'd need an ear the size of another solar system to hear him again.

My mother's most common childhood memory of me is standing next to me trying to be heard over the voice on the page. I didn't really commit to writing until I understood that it meant making that happen for someone else.

Imagine yourself as a pool of light and sound altering as all your days run through you, and they pass again and again. From moment to moment, you are every age you have ever been, but in no particular order. Time courses through you, the time you lived, a flume of your days. This was Peter's dementia.

He had said this to me before, and as I heard it, I felt as if I were vanishing into all the other times he had said this to me, returning to a single place where I was always leaving him, and on my return, he was always saying something of this kind.

The travel writer seeks the world we have lost - the lost valleys of the imagination.

The faculties of the mind itself have never yet been distinguished and defined, with satisfactory precision, by all the efforts of the most acute and metaphysical philosophers. Sense, perception, judgment, desire, volition, memory, imagination, are found to be separated by such delicate shades and minute gradations that their boundaries have eluded the most subtle investigations, and remain a pregnant source of ingenious disquisition and controversy.

every man has a map in his heart of his own country and that the heart will never allow you to forget this map. (p. 18)

We don't forget.... Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which came back, unexpectedly, to remind us who we are.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

Remembrance and reflection how allied. What thin partitions divides sense from thought.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll,In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Oh name forever sad! forever dear!Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Remembrance and reflection how allied! What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!