Quotes About Memory

But you were something more than young and sweet And fair, - and the long year remembers you.

Yet here one time your spirit was wont to move; Here might I hope to find you day or night, And here I come to look for you, my love, Even now, foolishly, knowing you are dead.

Death devours all lovely things: Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness - presently Every bed is narrow. Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation; And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished? — Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Passer Mortuus Est," Second April . (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1921)

AUTUMN CHANT Now the autumn shudders In the rose's root, Far and wide the ladders Lean among the fruit. Now the autumn clambers Up the trellised frame And the rose remembers The dust from which it came. Brighter than the blossom On the rose's bough Sits the wizened, orange, Bitter berry now; Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.

I shall forget before the flickers mate Your look that is today my east and west.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished?

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

No debería preocuparme por lo que ahora acontece. Pues cada instante niega el anterior, y la ilusión de continuidad es lo que llamamos tiempo. Que luego se convierte en sueños o recuerdos.

The past was an empty space, a blurry movie in which they had played the parts, on their own, of other people they'd forgotten.

GENNARO Paise distrutte, creature sperze, fucilazione… E quanta muorte… 'E lloro e 'e nuoste… E quante n'aggio viste… (Atterrito dalla visione che gli ritorna alla memoria più viva con tutti i suoi particolari) 'E muorte so' tutte eguale…»

Each man's destiny is personal only insofar as it may happen to resemble what is already in his memory.

Es en verdad curioso —dije— cómo la memoria es el último superviviente del naufragio de nuestra existencia, cómo el pasado destila estalactitas en el vacío de nuestra ejecutoria, cómo la empalizada de nuestras certezas se abate ante la leve brisa de una nostalgia.

Hann reisti sér loftkastala úr slitróttum minningum.

De aquella etapa recuerdo que arrojaba con alegría el tiempo por la borda, en la esperanza de que el globo alzara vuelo y me llevara a un futuro mejor. Loco anhelo, pues siempre seremos lo que ya fuimos.

Lo único que puedo asegurar es que en ninguna ocasión, ni siquiera en los más críticos bretes, he visto, conforme suele contarse, pasar ante mí mi vida entera como si fuera una película, lo que siempre es un alivio, porque bastante malo es de por sí morirse para encima morirse viendo cine español.

El deseo es el recuerdo del placer, el miedo es el recuerdo del dolor" Cuentos para adultos infantiles

y Aráoz ya había aprendido que el miedo es una excelente llave para guardar cosas en la memoria.

Sabe que es lo peor de todo? Lo miré. No supe qué decir. - Que la voy olvidando. Le temblaba la voz. No cometí el desatino de interrumpirlo. - La pienso, y la pienso todo el día. Me despierto por la noche y me desvelo recordándola. Pero me pasa que tiendo a recordar siempre las mismas cosas. Las mismas imágenes. ¿Qué es lo que recuerdo, entonces? ¿A ella o al recuerdo que he construido en este año y pico que lleva muerta?

Treinta años después Aráoz va pensando, mientras abre la puerta y siente la noche fresca, casi fría, que los pasos que damos al principio de la vida son tan hondos que desde entonces no podemos sino caminar una y otra vez por esas huellas.

An under-privileged juniper tree, living not on water and soil but on memory and hope. And almost alone. To the

that the sound of Jack Burns singing one of Burns' own songs had been a form of illusion, the actualization of memory and possibly desire rather than a direct perception.

I think you remember everything ... you just can't bring it to mind all the time.

Education is what survives when what has been learned has been forgotten. —B. F. Skinner