Quotes About Memory

Ma vie est un parfait cimetière d'espoirs ensevelis.

of a cross-marked grave somewhere in France. But tonight it was only a shadow Ã¢â'¬Â¦ nothing more.

Do you know, that is a question I often ask myself—If I could would I go back to my old self? —and I can never answer it. I can never dare to say either no or yes. The fruit of the tree of knowledge may leave a bitter taste in the eater's mouth, but there is something in its flavor that can never be forgotten or counterfeited.

She was still haunted by the ghost of the cake she had drowned.

Today, so long, so strange, so bitter; will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

To my mind's eye, my buried memories of Brandham Hall are like effects of chiaroscuro, patches of light and dark: it is only with effort that I see them in terms of colour. There are things I know, though I don't know how I know them, and things that I remember. Certain things are established in my mind as facts, but no picture attaches to them; on the other hand there are pictures unverified by any fact which recur obsessively, like the landscape of a dream.

El pasado es un país extranjero: allí las cosas se hacen de manera distinta.

Perhaps memory is not merely the preservation of a moment in the mind, but the process of repeatedly returning to it, carefully breaking it up in parts and assembling them again until we can make sense of what we remember.

The present could never be untethered from the past, you couldn't understand one without the other.

Maybe there is no true story, only imagined stories, vague reflections of what we saw and what we heard, what we felt and what we thought.

The old fellow gazed out at the empty tent, painted a soft green by the carbide lamps, and at the tables, now missing their tablecloths, and felt utterly desolate, imagining that this is what his funeral would be like: the tent would become a place of mourning, but there would be no dutiful sons or grandsons in mourning attire kneeling before his coffin, nothing but a few casual acquaintances playing mahjong through the night

I believe that we take every memory and every moment with us, and that whatever those memories are become our heaven or our hell.

Is the girl all right?" "She's had an ordeal but she's young," Augustus said. "She won't forget it, but she might outlive it.

In the night Lorena tried to sort it out in her mind. She had been hungry so much, tired so much, scared so much, that her mind didn't work well anymore. Sometimes she would try to remember something and couldn't—it was as if her mind and memory had gone and hidden somewhere until things were better.

It was only the thought that Deets was still knowing him, somehow, that kept him from feeling totally alone.

Part of him wanted to remember; part of him needed to forget.

Every time Roscoe tried to think back along the line of events that had led to his being in a place where there was no trees to lean against, he strayed off the line and soon got all tangled up in his thinking. It was probably better not to try and think back down the line of life.

Larry McMurtry

Indeed, looking back on her twenty-four years of marriage to Rudyard—something, admittedly, that she seldom did—Aurora could not remember a single thing that had been his fault, unless it was Emma, and even that was questionable.

We rarely hear the names of these early Western photographers now, though they were quite important: Carleton

Augustus remembered his own love for Clara Allen—it had pained him and pleased him at once.

But yesterday's gone on down the river and you can't get it back.

Did I still remember how to let my mind play?