Quotes About Memory

It was called "Tizita"; there was no single equivalent English word. Tizita meant "memory tinged with regret." Was there any other kind, Ghosh wondered.

such memories are woven from gossamer threads; time eats holes in the fabric, and these she must darn with myth and fable. The

These everyday, unremarkable noises of her youth are now, with the passing of her cherished loved ones, an ode to memory, bearing the past into the present. It is the hour for gracious ghosts.

No man has a good enough memory to be a sucessful liar.

I have not forgotten about the REO Speedwagon incident. No more of that. Never.

in honor of Aponte and his companions was placed there in the 1940s, though it was stolen in more recent times. Among Black communities in Havana, his memory was kept alive from generation to generation. Afro-Cuban historian José Luciano Franco recalled that in the 1960s, stories of Aponte's accomplishments—including his participation in the American Revolution—were well known in popular neighborhoods.

When the plane went down in San Francisco, I thought of my friend M. He's obsessed with plane crashes. He memorizes the wrecked metal details, the clear cool skies cut by black scars of smoke. Once, while driving, he told me about all the crashes: The one in blue Kentucky, in yellow Iowa. How people go on, and how people don't. It was almost a year before I learned that his brother was a pilot. I can't help it, I love the way men love.

If you live, you look back and beg for it again, the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss.

No one wants to be remembered for their death, or rather, I don't. So why do I remember hers and remember hers? I

Months later, when we went on our first date, I tried to seem put together, I wore a shawl she had given me. And her ring. I thought everything was behind me: death, and dying, and sickness. I didn't know I was changing my life— that I would have done anything, that what was left of me would become so ruthless to survive.

You're the muscle I cut from the bone and still the bone remembers, still it wants (so much, it wants) the flesh back, the real thing, if only to rail against it, if only to argue and fight, if only to miss a solve-able absence.

I'll never see you again, but that's a note I tear up in my mind.

Sometimes I think the memory of an event is better than the event itself.

put on the white dress that you had once said made you look like an angel with its real swan feathers and fools gold. Then I sat for a long time in the night and waited. At dawn, I woke with feathers sticky on my tongue and I remembered you were dead all over again.

When all were gone, Witiko stood with Bertha on the southern balcony pointing out the meadows and mountains he had told her of on the stones of the lonely meadow near her father's forest home.

We forget most of our past but embody all of it.

I try to remember everything, every thing, but sometimes I forget something. I don't even know what it is sometimes, but I know it's not coming to me, something about him isn't coming to me and when that happens, when a piece is missing, it makes me crazy. I don't know what to do with that.

So, if you do not believe in yourself and abilities, you will not take any action to improve your current situation. [...] To inspire yourself, you can recall memories when you were able to achieve goals or milestones. [...] Remind yourself that you have the knowledge and skills to realize your goals.

The day I turned sixteen years old I had no idea that in a few weeks nearly everyone I cared about would be dead.

Love, like light, is a thing that is enacted better than defined: we know it afterward by the traces it leaves on paper.

We live among the dead until we join them,

Anywhere people lived memory collected like sediment on the bed of a river, dropping from the flow of time to become fixed in the places time ran over

This street-this whole town-was so familiar that I looked straight through it, as if it were no longer a place unto itself but merely an opening onto the past.

We're not individuals. We're haunted by the living as well as the dead.