Quotes About Memory

Timpul îmbrac? forme ciudateîn ochii amintirii. El se destinde sau se chirce?te, se multiplic? sau se pliaz?.

Tradi?ia nu este numai amintire, ea este ?i obi?nuin?? ?i repetare, la urma urmelor a rutinei. De aceea, este o for?? ?i, în acela?i timp, o sl?biciune.

Un timp care curgea în sens contrar ?i care nu înceta niciodat? s? urce spre izvoarele sale. Un spa?iu al c?rui centru era acest leag?n al familiei spre care moartea ne aducea înapoi.

Mor?ii tr?iesc atâta vreme cât o singur? fiin?? vie îi mai poart? în minte. Noi îi purt?m în noi pe mor?ii no?tri.

Oare dispare vreodat? complet, în ceea ce este frumos ?i în ceea ce este r?u, în ceea ce este viu ?i în ceea ce este mort, povara zdrobitoare a trecutului?

Eu sunt mai aproape de tata: el î?i punea speran?ele într-o schimbare bazat? pe amintire. M? împart, ca el, între aceste dou? lumi apuse, pline de str?lucire ?i de for??: schimbarea ?i amintirea. ?i, între una ?i alta, refuz s? aleg.

Cultura este ceea ce r?mâne dup? ce ai uitat totul.

trecutul meu este trecut, mai trecut decât alte trecuturi, ?i se scufund? în întuneric.

We shall all die. But we shall not die together. Something will be left behind us like a trail of light to transmit to succeeding generations all that is great in work and in the imagination. And more than crumbling palaces and mutilated statues, what shines forever in men's memories are the efforts of the mind to lift itself above everyday existence by laughter, terror, metaphysical thought, the beauty of the word, and the brilliance of ideas.

Timpul aducea cu el toate lucrurile care ne distrugeau ?i de care ne temeam: uzura, del?sarea, schimbarea, declinul ?i uitarea.

It happend that Bob referred in front of Paul to the young woman met in Chantilly; it happened that Paul spoke to Bob of the one from the cinema that he'd had so much trouble seeing again. It never occurred to them that these portraits might bear a certain resemblance to each other, and the fact is that they bore none at all.

Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.

But I shall transmit their names far down the ages. These names alone will remain in the future, divested of their objects. Who, it will be asked, were Bulkaen, Harcamone, Divers, who was Pilorge, who was Guy? And their names will inspire awe, as we are awed by the light from a star that has been dead a thousand years. Have I told all there was to tell of this adventure? If I take leave of this book, I take leave of what can be related. The rest is ineffable. I say no more and walk barefoot.

I let myself drift, as to the depth of an ocean, to the depths of a dismal neighborhood of had and opaque but rather light houses, to the inner gaze of memory, for the matter of memory is porous

I let myself drift, as to the depth of an ocean, to the depths of a dismal neighborhood of hard and opaque but rather light houses, to the inner gaze of memory, for the matter of memory is porous.

Il était étendu comme crucifié. Il ne bougeait plus, mais il avait les yeux ouverts et, le regard de ces yeux, je ne l'oublierai jamais plus, même si je dure autant que Mathusalem. Sous sa barbe, il était pâle comme la mort. La flamme au poing, je le regardai : il était sur sa croix !

I remembered the room, on the third floor, which had a massive four-poster bed (this had also, apparently, come with the house; I could hardly imagine getting it in or out!)

I don't think I was young even when I actually was young, and that wasn't yesterday.

But whether I touch him or I run, whether I'm dreaming or I'm awake, on his birthday or on all other days, my whole life has been contaminated with the fact that he is dead.

But whether I touch him or I run, whether I'm dreaming or I'm awake, on his birthday or on all other days, my whole life has been contaminated with the fact that he is dead.

All that attacks is memory, all I suffer is regret.

Each … breeze," he says, watching the ripple of the bright, unfurling leaves, "will be me, missing. You." Smiling

her final words seem to ripple outward like waves of water from a thrown stone—don't remember don't remember don't remember don'trememberdon't "Remember?

He rode alone to the tenth floor, got off and strode into the newsroom. It was so strange, he thought, to see it empty. It was not the way he wanted to remember it.