Quotes About Memory

I believe that that love remains strong and intense in your memory because it was your first deep aloneness and the first inner work that you did on your life.

Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.

Now we wake up with our memory and fix our gazes on that which was; whispering sweetness, which once coursed through us, sits silently beside us with loosened hair

Depict your sorrows and desires, your passing thoughts and beliefs in some kind of beauty- depict all that with heartfelt, quiet, humble sincerity and use to express yourself the things that surround you,the images of your dreams and the objects of your memory. If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place.

Oh quickly disappearing photograph in my more slowly disappearing hand.

Poetry is the past that breaks out in our hearts.

Wie hab ich das gefühlt was Abschied heißt. Wie weiß ichs noch: ein dunkles unverwundnes grausames etwas, das ein Schönverbundnes noch einmal zeigt und hinhält und zerreißt.

Préfères-tu, rose, être l'ardente compagne de nos transports présents? Est-ce les souvenir qui davantage te gagne lorsqu'un bonheur se reprend? Tant de fois je t'ai vue, heureuse et sèche, - chaque pétale un linceul - dans un coffret odorant, à côté d'une mèche, ou dans un livre aimé qu'on relira seul.

The trees which you planted as a child Have long since grown too heavy; you do not deceive them. But the winds ... but the spaces ... Raise no monument. For it is the roses Which salute Him year by year with their petals. This, you see, is Orpheus

For there clings to him something that often overwhelms us— memory, a recollection that whatever we're striving for now was once closer and truer, and that its union with us was incredibly tender. Here, everything is distance; There, is was breath.

And yet they are in us, those who have long since passed away, as natural disposition, as burden on our destiny, as blood that throbs, and as gesture that rises up out of the depths of time.

I believe that love remains so strong and powerful in your memory because it was your first deep experience of solitariness and the first inner work that you undertook on your life.

In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love revive and lend it grandeur and height.

a band of painted horses, all from that bright land that lingers for so long before it fades

I have my dead and I have let them go and been surprised, to see them so consoled, so soon at home in death, just right this way, so unlike what we hear. Only you, you come back; you brush against me, you move about, you want to knock into things, to make them sound of you, telling me you're here. Oh don't take away what I'm slowly learning.

Memory Is Not Enough Memory is not enough… I do not recollect. What I am is alive in me because of you. I do not reinvent you at sadly cooled-off places you have left behind. Even your absence is filled with your warmth and is more real than your not-existing. Longing often meanders into vagueness. Why should I throw myself away when something in you may be touching me, very lightly, like moonlight on a window seat.

depict your sadnesses and desires, passing thoughts and faith in some kind of beauty - depict all this with intense, quiet, humble sincerity and make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory.

Wenn ihr mich sucht, sucht mich in euren Herzen. Habe ich dort eine Bleibe gefunden, lebe ich in euch weiter.

Was berechtigt Sie dann, ihn, welcher niemals war, wie einen Vergangenen zu vermissen und zu suchen, als ob er verloren wäre?

They were all such a part of that other life that's dead that I can't remember them all. (Time was as I was, but neither that time nor that I are anymore.)

That which we do is what we are. That which we remember is, more often than not, that which we would like to have been; or that which we hope to be. Thus our memory and our identity are ever at odds; our history ever a tall tale told by inattentive idealists.

Time was as I was, but neither that time nor that I are any more.)

It is too often the case in political concerns, that men state facts not as they are, but as they wish them to be; and almost every man, by calling to mind past scenes, will find this to be true.

We are students of words: we are shut up in schools, and colleges, and recitation -rooms, for ten or fifteen years, and come out at last with a bag of wind, a memory of words, and do not know a thing.