Quotes About Memory

To be sure, the belief that these ideas, the accompanying occurrences in the consciousness, were causes is also brought up by the memory. Thus there arises an habituation to a certain causal interpretation which in truth obstructs and even prohibits an investigation of the cause.

As a mother cannot forget the child of her womb, so a speaker cannot forget the child of his brain.

L'avenir nous tourmente, le passé nous retient, c'est pour ça que le présent nous échappe

Posseït Sóc més lluny que estimar-te. Quan els cucs faran un sopar fred amb el meu cos trobaran un regust de tu. I ets tu que indecentment t'has estimat per mi fins al revolt: saciada de tu, ara t'excites, te me'n vas darrera d'un altre cos, i em refuses la pau. No sóc sinó la mà amb què tu palpeges.

La vida no es la vida que uno vivió, sino la que uno recuerda y cómo recuerda para contarla

Cuando despierte - dijo- , recuérdame que me voy a casar con ella !

Always. At every moment, asleep and awake, during the most sublime and most abject moments, Amaranta thought of Rebeca, because solitude had made a selection in her memory and had burned the dimming piles of nostalgic waste that life had accumulated in her heart, and had purified, magnified, and eternalized the others, the most bitter ones.

He was still too young to know that the heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past. But when he stood at the railing of the ship... only then did he understand to what extent he had been an easy vicitim to the charitible deceptions of nostalgia.

She would not shed a tear, she would not waste the rest of her years simmering in the maggot broth of memory.

Todavia era demasiado joven para saber que la memoria del corazón elimina los malos recuerdos y magnifica los buenos, y que gracias a ese artificio logramos sobrellevar el pasado.

The past was a lie, memory has no return, every spring gone by could never be recovered, and the wildest and most tenacious love is an ephemeral truth in the end

for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

La persistencia de su recuerdo le aumentaba la rabia. Cuando despertó pensando en él, al día siguiente del entierro, logró quitarselo de la memoria con un simple gesto de la voluntad. Pero la rabia volvía siempre, y muy pronto se dio cuenta que el deseo de olvidarlo era el más fuerte estímulo para recordarlo. Entonces se atrevió a evocar por primera vez, vencida por la nostalgia, los tiempos ilusorios de aquel amor irreal

Oak, granite, Lilies by the road, Remember me? I remember you. Clouds brushing Clover hills, Remember me? Sister, child, Grown tall, Remember me? I remember you.

But my last conscious thought was an image of Prince Char when he'd caught the bridle of Sir Stephan's horse. His face had been close to mine. Two curls had spilled onto his forehead. A few freckles dusted his nose, and his eyes said he was sorry for me to go.

I love you now... I love you immortally, even if I die and there is nothing left of me.

But the lost one is with you. Her tenderness strengthens you, Her gaiety uplifts you, Her honor purifies you. More than memory, The lost one is found.

Your mother was beautiful." His voice was regretful. "I'm sorry she's dead.

Hard farewell, With no greeting to come. Sad farewell, When love is torn away. Long farewell, Till Death dies. "But the lost one is with you. Her tenderness strengthens you, Her gaiety uplifts you, Her honor purifies you. More than memory, The lost one is found.

the remembrance of them is grievous unto us; the burden of them is intolerable.

Squashed behind The Cloud of Unknowing we discovered a pocket-size spiral notebook with a day-by-day account of the time Justin had stayed with her and her husband after Tommy's death. The writing was legible though it required effort (this was before she took her calligraphy course), but Justin was ecstatic and asked if he could have the little notebook. "This is my history," he said. Later, after he had deciphered every last word: "Boy, was I loved.

There were only a few stories worth telling, which is why they needed to be told over and over again, until everyone recognized them as his own experience.

Merry didn't believe Feron had any idea of her homesickness. Now Ritchie was the complete opposite. He loved being away from home and at twelve was making plans for traveling the world. What made him different? Did people who weren't homesick carry their home inside them? And then there were people who wanted to forget the home they came from. She knew Feron must be one of these.

What is memory but another narrative form?