Quotes About Memory

they looked so much the same; perhaps their faces were a little less doughy, more defined. Are they stunted? Am I seeing them the way I will always see them? Am I the keeper of the ghosts of their childhood selves?

When I kiss her I am kissing 1903.

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us. —Gaston Bachelard

The person I once was, but lost, is the person you once knew.

He was going to think about her and think about her until she disappeared.

Memory returned like spring, Laurel thought. Memory had the character of spring. In some cases, it was the old wood that did the blooming

Fiction shows us the past as well as the present moment in mortal light; it is an art served by the indelibility of our memory, and one empowered by a sharp and prophetic awareness of what is ephemeral. It is by the ephemeral that our feeling is so strongly aroused for what endures, or strives to endure.

It is memory that is the somnambulist. It will come back in its wounds from across the world, like Phil, calling us by our names and demanding its rightful tears. It will never be impervious. The memory can be hurt, time and again -- but in that may lie its final mercy. As long as it's vulnerable to the living moment, it lives for us, and while it lives, and while we are able, we can give it up its due.

And who could ever remember any of the things he says? They are just inspired remarks that roll out of his mouth like smoke.

Memory lived not in initial possession but in the freed hands, pardoned and freed, and in the heart that can empty but fill again, in the patterns restored by dreams.

Mas a culpa por sobrevivermos àqueles que amamos, é justo que a carreguemos, pensava ela. Sobreviver-lhes é uma desconsideração que lhes fazemos.

A memória pode ser ferida, uma e outra vez, mas aí talvez resida a sua clemência final. Enquanto for vulnerável ao momento da vida, vive para nós, e enquanto vive, e enquanto formos capazes, podemos dar-lhe o que lhe e devido.

What burdens we lay on the dying, Laurel thought, as she listened now to the accelerated rain on the roof: seeking to prove some little thing that we can keep to comfort us when they can no longer feel--something as incapable of being kept as of being proved: the lastingness of memory, vigilance against harm, self-reliance, good hope, trust in one another.

Even if you have kept silent for the sake of the dead, you cannot rest in your silence, as the dead rest.

Hallo, Fremder, sagte er zu dem zweiten Reisenden. Die Welt ist klein! Lange her, seit unsere Köpfe Seite an Seite auf dem Kissen lagen. Eine Ewigkeit!, rief der andere. Da wusste Clement, dass sie alle einander fremd waren und dass die stürmische Nacht vor ihnen lag.

My Best Bread, written out twenty or thirty years ago in her mother's strict, pointed hand, giving everything but the steps of the procedure. (A cook is not exactly a fool.)

The memory is a living thing—it too is in transit. But during its moment, all that is remembered joins and lives—the old and the young, the past and the present, the living and the dead.

Cel care scrie a doua oar? Werther este un farseur care ÅŸtie Werther pe dinafar? ÅŸi-l transcrie, din memorie. AÅŸa ÅŸi situaÅ£ia literar? a României: repet?, mai prost.

The light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of all…I am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware of the unreality, the evanescence of the world, a fleeting image in the moving water

The past is the present, isn't it? It's the future too.

Then in the spring something happened to me. Yes, I remember. I fell in love with James Tyrone and was so happy for time.

No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail. I will always love you as only a dog can.

Only the past when you were happy is real.

He recites sardonically from Rossetti. "Look in my face. My name is Might-Have-Been; I am also called No More, Too Late, Farewell.