Quotes About Memory

Whole scenes of your life slip away forever if you don't put them down in ink.

I can't remember a single year of my life when I haven't made a piece of theatre.

I consider always the adult life to be the continuous retrieval of childhood.

You can never get the smell of smoke out. Like the smell of failure in life.

History illumes reality, vitalizes memory, provides guidance in daily life

Come on up, boys -I'm dead.

After the first death, there is no other.

It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats.

Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?

She has forgotten dying.

My father had wanted to name me for Dylan Thomas. He had seen him speak on one of those drunken poetry tours he did.

It has long been known that learners remember responses they generate themselves better than those responses that are given to them, and this is now often called the generation effect (Slamecka & Graf, 1978). In particular, one hour students spend writing test questions on what they have been studying results in more learning for them than one hour spent working with a study guide, answering practice tests, or leaving the students to their own devices (Foos, Mora, & Tkacz, 1994).

Take me up into your mind once or twice before I die (you know why: just because the eyes of you and me will be full of dirt some day). Quickly take me up into the bright child of your mind.

If you want to test your memory, try to recall what you were worrying about one year ago today.

One day when no one else was around, I went into the craft room at the back of the ground floor. I touched Gran's collection of fabrics, the shiny bright buttons, the coloured threads. My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss...

By now, you know everything about Jackson Clarke, probably way more than anyone on earth wants to hear. This is all I have to add: I still think about him every day. When I see him, my heart jumps up in my chest. I long for him to talk to me, and whenever he even says hello, I feel a thousand times worse than I did before. I wish he was dead. I wish he still liked me.

I had lost my dad. I had come here to this island from a house of tears and falsehood and I saw Gat, and I saw that rose in his hand, and in that one moment, with the sunlight from the window shining in on him, the apples on the kitchen counter, the smell of wood and ocean in the air, I did call it love.

I'd think of these images - people dying, a city drowning - instead of thinking about Rosemary, dying, drowning.

Do you still miss Gran?" I ask him as we head toward New Clairmont. "Because I miss her. We never talk about her." "A part of me died," he says. "And it was the best part.

I don't want to forget I'm trying to remember.

My head and shoulders melted first, followed by my hips and knees. Before long I was a puddle, soaking into the pretty cotton prints. I drenched the quilt she never finished, rusted the metal parts of her sewing machine. I was pure liquid loss, then, for an hour or two. My grandmother, my grandmother. Gone forever, though I could smell her Chanel perfume on the fabrics.

Every curve of his face was familiar, and also, I had never seen him before.

Touching him is familiar and unfamiliar. We have been here before. Also we have never been here before.

Touching him is familiar and unfamiliar. We have been here before. Also we have never been here before. For a moment, or for minutes, for hours, possibly.