Quotes About Memory

I am thinking of those strange moments when unexpectedly a kind of second sight like a deceptive memory seems suddenly to give us glimpses of many earlier lives.

Sre?a, kad je doživljujemo, nikad nije potpuna. Tek u sje?anju postaje potpuna...

Kes suudab elada, ilma et unustaks? Aga kes suudab küllalt unustada? Mälestuste Å¡lakk, mis südant rebestab. Alles siis, kui sul enam midagi ei ole, mille nimel elada, oled vaba.

Erich Maria Remarque

Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains.

the invisible storehouse in nothingness, called memory.

Here lies our comrade, Kemmerich, who a little while ago was roasting horse flesh with us and squatting in the shell-holes. He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate from which two pictures have been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

It is a strange thing that all the memories have these two qualities. They are always full of quietness, that is the most striking thing about them; and even when things weren't like that in reality, they still seem to have that quality. They are soundless apparitions, which speak to me by looks and gestures, wordless and silent—and their silence is precisely what disturbs me.

Stebuklas, kai j? patiri, niekuomet n?ra pilnas, tik atmintis padaro j? tokiu.

There's something good about unpleasant memories: they make you think you are happy when a moment before you were convinced of the contrary. Happiness is a question of degree. When you know that, you are seldom completely unhappy.

A miracle is never perfect when it happens, there are always little disappointments. But once it's gone for good and nothing can change it, memory could make it perfect and then it would never change. If I can just call it to life now, won't it always stay the same? Won't it stay with me as long as I live?

it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.

And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again, and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.

Not everyone's life is like a house that belongs to him and that he can go on decorating ever more richly with the furniture of his memory. Some people live in hotels, in many hotels. The years close behind them like hotel doors— and the only thing that remains is a little courage and no regrets.

M?su nol?d?t? atmi?a ir siets. T? grib izdz?vot. Un izdz?vot var tikai aizmirstot.

In Wirklichkeit vergessen wir nichts. Solange wir hier im Felde sein müssen, sinken die Fronttage, wenn sie vorbei sind, wie Steine in uns hinunter, weil sie zu schwer sind, um sofort darüber nachdenken zu können.

Shortly after the war Valentin had come into a little money, and had been drinking it ever since. He considered it his duty to celebrate his good luck in having come out alive. It was nothing to him that that was now several years ago. One could never celebrate it enough, he used to explain. He was one of those with an uncanny memory of the war. The rest of us had forgotten many things; but he remembered every day and every hour.

It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." - Paul Baumer

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to use we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them; we might remember and love them and be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not

This habit of getting used to things is the reason that we seem to forget so quickly.

SevmÉ™yÉ™n adam bu dünyaya mÉ™zuniyyÉ™tÉ™ gÉ™lmiÅŸ ölüdür. Onun da quruca ad? , doÄŸulduÄŸu ay?, ili var, vÉ™ssalam.

Q?sqancl?q deyilÉ™n ÅŸey iki sevÉ™ndÉ™n birinin qabaqca ölÉ™cÉ™yini bilÉ™n gündÉ™n baÅŸlam?rd?m? ?

So long as I do not know his name perhaps I may still forget him, time will obliterate it, this picture. But his name, it is a nail that will be hammered into me and never come out again. It has the power to recall this forever, it will always come back and stand before me.

Ma il suo nome è un chiodo che si pianterà in me e non si potrà strappare mai più.