Quotes About Memory

Where beams of imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away.

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

Men must be taught as if you taught them not the things unknown, but the things forgotten.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit:

Brilho eterno de uma mente sem lembranças. Toda prece é ouvida, toda graça se alcança.

Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.

We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

Memory is a mans real possession....in nothing else is he rich....in nothing else is he poor.

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

Own only what you can carry with you; know language, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.

It's a sobering fact, the historian Timothy Snyder points out, that 'cultures of memory are organized by round numbers, intervals of ten; but somehow the remembrance of the dead is easier when the numbers are not round, when the final digit is not a zero.

What is important is the story. Because when we are all dust and teeth and kicked-up bits of skin - when we're dancing with our own skeletons - our words might be all that's left of us.

You can't rewind war. It spools on, and on, and on, looping and jumping, distorted and cracked with age, and the stories contract until only the nuggets of hatred remain and no one can even remember, or imagine, why the war was organized in the first place.

carved this for Gaius just days before he left," he said, his voice thick. He didn't add

I was in love with the idea of him. An ideal of him. Of who I thought he was. Of who he used to be.

Time has a funny way of airbrushing relationships, removing all the things that were wrong so when you look back it looks much better than it really was.

It is always the silly things that remind me

It was the feeling she'd had when Sam had first kissed her in the pub. When he'd first put his lips against her. She didn't know if she'd imagined it or if it had just been the effects of the booze, but it had felt as if a thousand flash bulbs were going off in her brain. As if someone had turned on a very bright, very intense light. And she;d sure as hell never wanted to switch it off.

That Billy was her only child was testimony to death of the romance.

Learning does not make one learned: there are those who have knowledge and those who have understanding. The first requires memory and the second philosophy.

There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.

She'd skipped one of the most important parts. Or did she not remember their kiss? That would really piss him off, because every time he thought about it, he got hard all over again. He was about to call her on it, when he noticed how flushed her cheeks were. She remembered all right; she just didn't want to talk about it.

So my brain is as stuffed as some old broken-down Commodore you see left in the bush.