Quotes About Memory

We do not learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection.

They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing.

There is a gentle thought that often springs to life in me, because it speaks of you.

What you have been taught by listening to others' words you will forget very quickly; what you have learned with your whole body you will remember for the rest of your life.

What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it.

How people die remains in the memory of those who live on

I wish I could remember where I put things. I spend half my life looking for my keys. With the other half I look for my glasses.

Life is nothing but a memory. People who dwell on the bad ones aren't going to have a whole lot of good ones coming up.

I have become an orchid washed in on the salt white beach. Memory, what can I make of it now that might please you- this life, already wasted and still strewn with miracles?

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still.

If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he's dead, then maybe he was a great man.

Preserve your history and become everlasting; receive new life from the times that have gone by.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: 'Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life'.

The hollows of his face, even in that vibrant, late-summer light, make him look haunted by a memory he hasn't had yet.

You won't have nightmares any more when you grow up.' I solemnly believed this. He looked at me levelly, and said softly, 'When I grow up, I'm going to kill you.' His smile slowly came out then, like the sun in a winter cloud. In my memory, the sentence stretches, and seems to be said a hundred times not quite at once. That sentence has its own particular, special moment in time, which lasts until now.

Something had sharpened her, and he thought it might be memory.

I've been trying to remember this place," she said, almost plaintively. "I love it here, but the entire time I've felt like it was the one remembering me.

I remember you, Saul. I remember the keeper of the light.

The things we say to each other, thinking they are so important to say, and yet later regret, that become a part of you no matter how hard you push them away, even as you can't stop thinking about them.

Better not to think of people living here, of it being empty Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and yet now you want someone to remember, to understand what was lost, even if it was little enough.

Somehow Charlie looked so good in that moment, putting on his jacket. Saul clasped him tight before he could get away. The weight of the man in his arms. The feel of Charlie's rough shave that he loved so much. The tart surprise of Charlie's lip balm against his cheek. Held him for an extra moment, trying to preserve all of it, as a bulwark against whatever had just happened. Then, too soon, Charlie was gone, out the door, into the night, headed for the boat.

When the memory became too faint, too abstract, it would transform itself into an old rotator cuff injury, a pain so thin yet so sharp that he could trace the line of it all the way across his shoulder blade and down his back.