Quotes About Memory

He couldn't remember his former babysitter's name. It was in the Elisa/Alyssa/Alicia vein, but he wasn't sure exactly which.

The morning after my death we will sit in cafés but I will not be there I will not be

Tarik was dead. Lumeo was dead. An

The baby's first birthday. Surgery day, I point out, because I have trouble calling it birth. Anniversary of the great failure. Ari.

You must live for the living, and not for the dead. Was it wrong to remember Alec with a smile because she had known and loved him, instead of with pain because she had lost him?

I wondered if I would remember this feeling after Catherine. The feeling of seeing a friend—someone I knew and who knew me, too, someone who cared about me—walking in through a door or waving from across a hall or bending to whisper in another friend's ear. Of being inside, so inside, such an intimacy, and at the same time seeing it from outside. A feeling of being seen, beautiful and young, seated at a mythic table.

I studied the photo of the boy, the one who had died six years ago, and wished I were dead. Dead people didn't have to do homework.

It's strange, isn't it? One small bit of information - a private relationship, something that happened a long time ago - and the whole story seems different.

Everything is a matter of perspective, she told them. Every story of what happened is just a version of what happened. Memory is subjective. Fact and truth are two different things.

Nostalgia is a narcotic.

We are driving along a road I have driven my whole life. I still watch for the bends in the creek, checking to see how high the water comes up on the bank, I still hold my breath as we go around the blind turn, I can close my eyes and tell you where we are just by the way my stomach feels. I wonder if after I grow up and move away, if I came back would my body still remember this road, or would I have forgotten it?

Many a check at the memory pales; The jubilant music faints and fails, Dying in low and mournful wails For those whose graves are green; The crowd grows still with a conscious dread, So still that you almost hear the tread, The ghostly tread of the gallant dead Who walk in the ranks unseen.

To live in memory and in dreams is a cruel comfort.

The basket of remembrance has three sides; one is open, can it tilt and spill out?

And so i write to fix him in place, to pass time in his company, to make sure I remember, even though I know I will never forget.

Henry Ford believed the soul of a person is located in their last breath and so captured the last breath of his best friend Thomas Edison in a test tube and kept it evermore.

Named softly as the household name of one whom God had taken.

The face, which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away And yet my days go on, go on.

Here's ivy! take them, as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot My soul's full meaning into future years, That they should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures, from life that disappears!

Of writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,-- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

Memory is a spiderweb. It hangs in a corner and collects dust. Until you need it to catch a fly.