Quotes About Memory

Memories do not change the law.

Igual que algo que se hunde y reposa sobre el fondo de un lago al que no llega la luz, así escapan los recuerdos a nuestro alcance. Pero si alargas el brazo lo suficiente bajo la superficie del agua, tus dedos rozarán aquello que los ojos no ven. Cógelo y tráelo a la superficie, donde la luz volverá a iluminarlo.

Döden försvann efter hand tillsammans med tiden allt längre bort i fjärran, och minnet var det enda som blev kvar, minnet som är det allra mest värdefulla vi har.

But they're invisible, aren't they? And no matter how wonderful the memory, it vanishes if you leave it alone, if no one pays attention to it. They leave no trace, no evidence that they ever existed. But I suppose you're right when you say we should do everything we can to bring back memories of the things that have disappeared.

Somehow, I have the feeling my voice may come back one day if I study the letters imprinted on the used ribbon.

I'd imagine you'd be uncomfortable, with your heart full of so many forgotten things.

I sometimes wonder what was disappeared first—among all the things that have vanished from the island.

A heart has no shape, no limits. That's why you can put almost any kind of thing in it, why it can hold so much. It's much like your memory, in that sense.

My memories don't feel as though they've been pulled up by the root. Even if they fade, something remains. Like tiny seeds that might germinate again if the rain falls. And even if a memory disappears completely, the heart retains something. A slight tremor or pain, some bit of joy, a tear.

A heart has no shape, no limits. That's why you can put almost any kind of thing in it, why it can hold so much. It's much like your memory, in that sense.

People—and I'm no exception—seem capable of forgetting almost anything, much as if our island were unable to float in anything but an expanse of totally empty sea.

Writing an autobiography means guessing or making up everything you've forgotten. I thought I'd already sufficiently described the character Ivan. In reality, I could no longer even remember him. Or rather: I was starting to remember him all too clearly, which could only mean this Ivan was now nothing more than my creation.

I think hunting used to be important for human survival. THat's no longer the case, but they can't stop. A human being, perhaps, is made of many nonsensical movements. But they've forgotten the movements necessary for life. These humans are manipulated by what remains of their memories.

This word natsukashii seemed to be made of mist, a mist I was wandering through with unsteady steps.

Some day soon, perhaps in forty years, there will be no one alive who has ever known me. That's when I will be truly dead -- when I exist in no one's memory. I thought a lot about how someone very old is the last living individual to have known some person or cluster of people. When that person dies, the whole cluster dies,too, vanishes from the living memory. I wonder who that person will be for me. Whose death will make me truly dead.

I think we ripple on into others, just like a stone puts its ripples into a brook. That, for me, too, is a source of comfort. It kind of, in a sense, negates the sense of total oblivion. Some piece of ourselves, not necessarily our consciousness, but some piece of ourselves gets passed on and on and on.

Une mère, c'est une présence que ni l'érosion du temps ni les défaillances de la mémoire ne peuvent altérer.

A quatre-vingts ans, notre avenir est derrière. Devant, il n'y a que le passé.

I still notice the burned house, mornings, when I walk along the beach. "Well, obviously I do not notice the house. What I notice is what remains of the house. One is still prone to think of a house as a house, however, even if there is not remarkably much left of it.

I also believe I met William Gaddis once. He did not look Italian.

And among the sleeping soldiers and colonists in the crypts lay one apart, a woman who had forgotten the meaning of life.

To live (as I understand it) is to exist within a conception of time. But to remember is to vacate the very notion of time. Every memory, no matter how remote its subject, takes place 'Now,' at the moment it's called to the mind. The more something is recalled, the more the brain has a chance to refine the original experience. Because every memory is a re-creation, not a playback.

To live as I understand it is to exist within a conception of time. But to remember is to vacate the very notion of time.

Svako sje?anje , koliko god mu sadržaj dalek, doga?a se ''sada'', u trenutku kad ga um prizove. Što se ?eš?e prisje?amo, to um ima više prilike prepravljati izvorno iskustvo, jer svako je prisje?anje ponovno stvaranje, a ne reprodukcija.