Quotes About Memory

We all have two stories---the journal of our life evnets, and the fiction we tell ourselves about them. Charles James's Diary

Trauma has a way of indelibly linking the incidentals to the profound.

Yes, she's fine. She's rereading one of your books. There's not many authors she likes, so if there's nothing new, she just rereads yours. The funny thing is, she forgets how they end, so she enjoys it just as much as the first time. I swear the woman could plan her own surprise party.

Just like my great-grandfather," Jack said. "He died in his sleep. Much more peacefully than the screaming passengers in the car he was driving.

Alan will never forget. Click Here to

I think the secret to a hoppy life is a selective memory. Remember what you are most grateful for and quickly forget what your not.

You can't come back to something that is gone.

Life has a way of talking to the future. It's called memory. It's called genes.

Back at Santa Anita, a five-year-old boy, George Takei, who later became a famous actor, was fond of the searchlights. He thought they were there to help him find his way to the latrine and back—rather than to prevent him from escaping.

My books are elegiac in the sense that they're odes to a nation that even I sometimes think may not exist anymore except in my memory and my imagination.

Sometimes when you've pulled and pushed at a problem without getting an answer, or tried to grab a too-slippery memory, if you completely dismiss the matter from consciousness, often — when it's least expected — the answer will pop up like toast from the depths of your unconscious toaster. I do it all the time. In fact, that may be why some people call me Shell Scott, the Unconscious Detective.

People never forget things, they just never remembered it in the first place because it was too boring

Die Zwerge, die wir in den Höhlen des Donnerbergs gefunden haben, sahen anders aus. Ihre Gesichter waren grau wie Stein.« »Sie waren tot«, erinnerte Leandra mich. »Das könnte es erklären«, nickte ich.

I did not know you would fade so soon, oh flower.

History repeats itself. Someone says this. History throws its shadow over beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. history is the little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of, I know history. There are many names in history... but none of them are ours.

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.

I don't really blame you for being dead but you can't have your sweater back.

You can sleep now, you said. You can sleep now. You said that. I had a dream where you said that. Thanks for saying that. You weren't supposed to.

I know history. There are many names in history but none of them are ours.

If the dead are watching, I want them to see us writing, dancing, singing, painting. I want them to see that we still reach out to each other.

There are many names in history but none of them are ours.

You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You're in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you're ready you'll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren't ready, and then you don't remember where you've been

the names of flowers that open only once, shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops, or muffled by rooftops, or whispered in sleep, or caught in the throat like a lump of meat.

It could have been so beautiful . . . how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy