Quotes About Memory

He sang the last two lines strong and smooth, promising that he'd always be with me, even when I could no longer hear his voice. I whispered the lines with him, sending the promise right back

I'll never forget you. I'll never forget your voice or your face or your dumb jokes. And i'll never forget your love.

Even the second time around, the lyrics and melody reached through my ears, bypassed my brain, and went straight to my heart, where they wriggled around, causing a hundred different pains.

It's not wise to rely on a man's ability to remember anything.

Dead people don't bleed for long.

Because memory cannot be adequately utilized to retain an image, the borderline forgets what the object of his concern looks like, sounds like, feels like. To escape the panicky sensation of abandonment and loneliness, the borderline tries to cling desperately—calling, writing, using any means to maintain contact.

When a man or woman loves to brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep it green in their memory, you may be sure it is no longer a pain to them.

I don't understand German myself. I learned it at school, but forgot every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt much better ever since.

To memorize Scripture effectively, you must have a plan. The plan should include a selection of well-chosen verses, a practical system for learning those verses, a systematic means of reviewing them to keep them fresh in your memory, and simple rules for continuing Scripture memory on your own.

It's worth noting that IBM's program, named Watson, had access to 200 million pages of content consuming four terabytes of memory.

The experience of war never quite leaves a young man or woman. A great many are utterly destroyed by it. All are indelibly and subtly marked by it, because, for good or evil, the memory never quite leaves any of us." Col.

He was a vision to behold against the backdrop of the strong majestic mountains --- and he was all hers now. The pain of the past was just a memory.

The secret of food lies in memory - of thinking and then knowing what the taste of cinnamon or steak is.

'Summer of Love: Art of the Psychedelic Era ' the Whitney Museum's 40th-anniversary trip down counterculture memory lane, provides moments of buzzy fun, but it'll leave you only comfortably numb. For starters, it may be the whitest, straightest, most conservative show seen in a New York museum since psychedelia was new.

'The Panorama' is also the last place anywhere in New York where the World Trade Center still stands, whole, as it stood in the early morning of September 11. I can also see the corner where I saw the first tower fall and howled out loud. Seeing the buildings again here is uplifting, healing.

Every work of art is a culturescape of you, your memories, the moments you spent working, your hopes, energies, and neuroses, the times you live in, and your ambitions. Of the things that are engaging, mysterious, meaningful, resistant over time.

That day, as I contemplated the Medusa, I felt the shattering heartbreak of a long-forgotten memory. My mind carried me back to a moment when I was ten years old, left by my mother to wander alone in the Art Institute of Chicago, scared and confused, until a small colorful diptych by Giovanni di Paolo beckoned to me from across a gallery. A portal opened. A month later, my mother committed suicide. The portal slammed shut. I never looked at art again. Until I did. —

This book, for me, is less an exercise in recall than exorcism.

Nie by? to przecie? jedyny cz?owiek, którego kocha?em. Ale by? ostatnim, i to go czyni dla mnie po dzi? dzie? jedynym.

There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return.

As I go to sleep I remember what my father said-that one can never be sure if one will awake. The way my health is now, this is becoming more and more real.

Corre por mi memoria atrapadas por las brumas del olvido, las largas borracheras de papá

Veo a los lejos, el árbol de eucalipto, donde algún día ya olvidado, bese a la mujer que me enamoró por primera vez, y con la que mi cuerpo, tuvo la primera explosión volcánica, y a quién jamás vi o conocí personalmente, sino es, por la vieja foto de almanaque.

Sus cenizas volaron por el aire en una danza con el viento, en un feliz encuentro entre el olvido y el recuerdo