Quotes About Memory

Now and then, I am surprised to read of the death of someone I have known, because I thought he or she had died long ago. Actually, he had only stopped growing.

The rules say that to tell a story you need first of all a measuring stick, a calendar, you have to calculate how much time has passed between you and the facts, the emotions to be narrated.

starting at a certain point, the future is only a need to live in the past. To immediately redo the grammatical tenses.

So afterward, when you no longer love him, it bothers you just to think that you once wanted him.

I had long since realized that each of us organizes memory as it suits him, I'm still surprised when I do it myself. But it surprised me that one could go so far as to give the facts an arrangement that went against one's own interests.

the dead are objects that have broken, a television, the radio, the mixer, and the best thing is to remember them as they were when they were working, because the only acceptable tomb is memory.

Childhood is a tissue of lies that endure in the past tense

I looked at him attentively. It was really true, there was no longer anything about him that could interest me. He wasn't even a fragment of the past, he was only a stain, like the print of a hand left years ago on a wall.

Mi ero accorta da tempo che ognuno si organizza la memoria come gli conviene, tuttora mi sorprendo a farlo anch'io

La prima volta che ho visto Enzo è stato a una festa da ballo e abbiamo ballato questo ballo qui" la sentii dire. "Quanto tempo fa?" "Questo 23 maggio diciassette anni." ââ'¬Å"È passato molto tempo." "Non è passato nemmeno un minuto.

I wanted him to see in that plate of pasta everything that, by leaving, he would no longer be able to look at, or touch, or caress, listen to, smell: never again.

Is it possible that in all those years she left me nothing of herself, or, worse, that I didn't want to keep anything of her? It is. This

Cada cual se organiza el recuerdo como le conviene.

I've known how to whistle since I was five years old.

Every footfall, every voice was Don Achille creeping up behind us or coming down toward us with a long knife, the kind used for slicing open a chicken breast. There was an odor of sautéing garlic. Maria, Don Achille's wife, would put me in the pan of boiling oil, the children would eat me, he would suck my head the way my father did with mullets.

futuro, a partir de cierto punto, es solo una necesidad de vivir en el pasado.

He had rid himself so fiercely of memory, language, the capacity to find meaning that it seemed obvious the hatred he had for himself, for his own skin, for his moods, for his thoughts and words, for the brutal corner of the world that had enveloped him.

a bitter sarcasm alternated with a quiet cult of memory.

Voksne venter på i morgen, bevæger sig i en nutid bag hvilken der er i går eller i forgårs eller højst sidste uge: Resten vil de ikke tænke på. Børn kender ikke betydningen af i går, af i forgårs eller sågar af i morgen, alt er lige nu; gaden er den, døråbningen er den, trapperne er dem, det er mor, det er far, det er dagen, det er natten.

Ognuno si organizza la memoria come gli conviene.

Para escribir hay que desear que algo te sobreviva.

How many things pass through time randomly detached from the bodies and voices of persons. My mother knew the art of making clothes last forever.

Para escrever é preciso desejar que alguma coisa sobreviva a ti

it possible that our parents never die, that every child inevitably conceals them in himself? Would my mother truly emerge from me, with her limping gait, as my destiny?