Quotes About Memory

Reggie's earliest memory of her mother began with her mother balancing an egg on its end and ended with Reggie losing her left ear.

What's the difference, I wondered, between a ghost and a memory?

I think everything must have a soul and a memory, even tigers and roses, even snow. And, of course, old Shep, who spends his days sleeping by the fire, eyes closed, paws moving, because he's still a young dog in his dreams. How can you dream if you don't have a soul?

It would be nice if you could have some control over it, deciding which memories would stay, which would be banished to the netherworld. Poof. Just like that.

If snow melts down to water, does it still remember being snow?

Q: Bury deep, Pile on stones, Yet I will Dig up the bones. What am I? A: Memories — A FOLK RIDDLE

Think of me. Remember me. Love me.

And, as Rhonda told the story, she thought: this is how the past gets passed down. This is how memories are made. Half-invented, embellished, given a touch of whimsy.

The mistake of Marc Antony's death haunts all suicides, with its reminder that we do not always know where we really are in our story.

It's not so much time is circular as time confuses memory with hope and fear which often looks like the future

I remember running down a road on my way to a nursery of flowers. I remember her smile and her laugh when I was my best self and she looked at me like I could do no wrong and was whole. I remember how she looked at me the same way even when I wasn't. I remember her hand in mine and how that felt, as if something and someone belonged to me.

I was here. TF.

If a song's meant to stay around, you carry it with you in your bones.

Finch: Theodore Finch, in search of the Great Manifesto Violet: I don't know that what means Finch: It means 'the urge to be, to count for something, and, if death must come, to die valiantly, with acclamation - in short, to remain a memory.

Love is truly the great manifesto; the urge to be, to count for something, and, if death must come, to die valiantly, with acclamation—in short, to remain a memory.

I skim through our notebook, thick with words, and then through our Facebook messages—so many now—and then I write a new one, quoting Virginia Woolf: "Let us wander whirling to the gilt chairs.… Are we not acceptable, moon? Are we not lovely sitting together here Ã¢â'¬Â¦?

I was alive. I burned brightly. And then I died, but not really. Because someone like me cannot, will not, die like everyone else. I linger like the legends of the Blue Hole. I will always be here, in the offerings and people I left behind.

When you're looking back, you can't look forward. And sometimes you run smack into something and hit your head.

Guys like Ryan Cross have a way of reminding you who you are, even when you don't want to remember.

This is what happens when people die. They start to disappear if you don't watch it. Not all at once, but a piece here, a piece there.

With face blindness, I seem to constantly lose the people I love.

Just because they're dead, they don't have to be. And neither do we.

Your identifier is you. I remember your eyes. Your mouth. The freckles on both cheeks that look like constellations. I know your smiles, at least three of them, and at least eight of your expressions, including the ones you only do with your eyes. If I could draw, I would draw you, and I wouldn't need to look at you to do it. Because your face is stuck in my mind.

Have you ever done something you regretted?' 'Does last year's school picture counts?