Quotes About Memory

Pronto se dirá de vosotros lo que suele ahora decirse de nosotros, murieron!!

Algún día no muy lejano pocos recordarán lo que pasó. — No te hagas mala sangre. Es ley de vida. Al final, siempre gana el olvido.

Escribí sin odio contra el lenguaje del odio y contra la desmemoria y el olvido tramado por quienes tratan de inventarse una historia al servicio de su proyecto y sus convicciones totalitarias.

No hay mayor fatuidad que creerse inmortal en la memoria frágil de los hombres. Gloria al olvido, que siempre triunfa.

To live is to be someone else. Feeling is impossible if we feel today as we felt yesterday: to feel today the same thing we felt yesterday is not to feel at all--it's merely to remember today what we felt yesterday, since today we are the living cadaver of yesterday's lost life.

In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else's dream.

As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don't know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).

To feel today what one felt yesterday isn't to feel - it's to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today's living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.

All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

Ricordo bene il suo sguardo. Attraversa ancora la mia anima Come una scia di fuoco nella notte. Ricordo bene il suo sguardo. Il resto… Sì, il resto è solo una parvenza di vita.

Si después de morir , quieres escribir mi biografía No hay nada más sencillo. Tiene sólo dos fechas : la de mi nacimiento y la de mi muerte. Entre una y otra todos los días son míos.

of having forgotten the colour of loves and the taste of hatreds. We thought we were immortal.

I forget. I don't see. I don't think.

Todo se me evapora. Mi vida entera, mis recuerdos, mi imaginación y lo que contiene, mi personalidad, todo se me evapora. Continuamente siento que he sido otro, que he sentido otro, que he pensado otro. Aquello a lo que asisto es un espectáculo con otro escenario. Y aquello a lo que asisto soy yo

I don't remember my mother. She died when I was one year old. My distracted and callous sensibility comes from the lack of that warmth and from my useless longing after kisses I don't remember.

no nostalgia hurts as much as nostalgia for things that never existed!

We don't even know if what ends with daylight terminates in us as useless grief, or if we are just an illusion among shadows, and reality just this vast silence without wild ducks that falls over the lakes where straight and stiff reeds swoon. We know nothing. Gone is the memory of the stories we heard as children, now so much seaweed; still to come is the tenderness of future skies, a breeze in which imprecision slowly opens into stars.

Onder het wandelen bedenk ik vaak volmaakte zinnen, die ik me later thuis niet meer kan herinneren. Ik weet niet of de ontzaglijke poëtische kracht van die zinnen berust op hun inhoud of op het feit dat ze nooit hebben bestaan.

Twice in my adolescence – which I feel so remotely it seems like someone else's story that I read or was told – I enjoyed the humiliating pain of being in love.

Bog, kom se služilo poljupcima, mrtav je sada!

Caut s? m? dezbar de ceea ce am înv??at, Caut s? uit felul de a-mi aminti cu care am fost înv??at, S? r?zuiesc cerneala cu care mi-au fost mânjite simÅ£urile, S? scot din l?zi adev?ratele mele emoÅ£ii, S? m? despachetez ÅŸi s? fiu eu.

Whoever lives like me doesn't die: he terminates, wilts, devegetates. The place where he was remains without him being there; the street where he walked remains without him being seen on it; the house where he lived is inhabited by not-him. That's all, and we call it nothing;

I want you only to dream of you,' they tell the beloved woman in verses they never send – they who dare not tell her anything. This 'I want you only to dream of you' is a verse from an old poem of mine. I record the memory with a smile, and don't even comment on the smile.

To live is to be other. It's not even possible to feel, if one feels today what he felt yesterday. To feel today what one felt yesterday isn't to feel – it's to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today's living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.