Quotes About Memory

One minute you're walking through a dark woods, alone, and then the landscape shifts, and you see it. Something wondrous and unexpected, almost magical, that you never would have found had you not kept going. Like a new friend who feels like an old one, or a memory you'll never forget. Maybe even a carousel.

Interesting, I thought, how quickly history becomes stories rather than reality; one step already from the truth.

nevertheless there is a kind of comfort to be gained from the passing of time; hour upon hour, day upon day, time falling like thick flakes of snow, the next laid upon the last, again and again, until what has been is gradually covered over, its original shape and colour hidden under the blanket of what is now.

there is a kind of comfort to be gained from the passing of time, hour upon hour, day upon day, time falling like thick flakes of snow, the next laid upon the last, again and again, until what has been is gradually covered over, its original shape and colour hidden under a blanket of what is now.

Sure, I know where most things are but give me enough time and I can lose anything.

Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us — by taking everything.

The trouble with letting people see you at your worst isn't that they'll remember; it's that you'll remember.

I don't know how I stay alive. What I do know is that there is a light, far above us, that goes out when we die, and that in Hell there is a gray tulip that grows without any sun. It reminds me of everything I failed at, and I water it carefully. It is all I have to remind me of you.

To write a diary is to make a series of choices about what to omit, what to forget. A memorable sandwich, an unmemorable flight of stairs. A memorable bit of conversation surrounded by chatter that no one records.

And then I think I don't need to write anything down ever again. Nothing's gone, not really. Everything that's ever happened has left its little wound.

I hesitate. I feel like we forgot something. But what?

To me, every plaque, no matter what words are inscribed on it, says the same magic informative thing: Something happened! The gum cost a dollar, but the story was free.

As the starstruck Lafayette later described his first glimpse of Washington, It was impossible to mistake for a moment his majestic figure and deportment; nor was he less distinguished by the noble affability of his manner. What a sweet memory. Still, it does get on my nerves how easy it is for tall people to make a good first impression.

on the illusive "Monsieur Hortalez." When my friend Steven and I went looking for the building one afternoon, we came to the address at 47 rue Vieille-du-Temple and realized we had been there before.

Never underestimate the corrective lens that is sentimentality.

In the gravedigger scene in act V, Hamlet looks upon an anonymous skull and jokes that even Alexander the Great decomposed into dust that could have been used to plug a beer barrel. But when Hamlet is shown this skull of his old friend Yorick, the prince becomes unspeakably sentimental and sad because he knew him.

You can't miss what you don't remember ever having.

Well, darling, you can't eat principles,' her mother said when she complained about this, 'but you can certainly dine out on the memory of them, so good for you.

In the past - even a long while after she left me - I thought of Anny. Now I think of no one any more. I don't even bother looking for words. It flows in me, more or less quickly. I fix nothing, I let it go. Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up: I forget them almost immediately.

Construyo mis recuerdos con el presente. Estoy desechado, abandonado en el presente. En vano trato de alcanzar el pasado; no puedo escaparme.

The flesh would shrink and go, the blood would dry, but no one believes in his mind of minds or heart of hearts that the pictures do stop.

Going up, Herzong found a bouquet of violets, dropped from the hand of a woman. Perhaps a bride. Little perfume remained in them, but they made him remember... These violets smelled to him like female tears. He gave them a burial in the trash ca, hoping they had not dropped from a disappointed hand.

At times I feel like a socket that remembers its tooth.

Death discredits. Survival is the whole success. The voice of the dead goes away. There isn't any memory. The power that's established fills the earth and destiny is whatever survives, so whatever is is right.