Quotes About Memory

Tanis at first wondered what the mage was studying, then realized it was his spellbook. It is the curse of the magi that they must constantly study and recommit their spells to memory every day. The words of magic flame in the mind, then flicker and die when the spell is cast. Each spell burns up some of the magician's physical and mental energy until he is totally exhausted and must rest before he can use his magic again.

What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words.

All that remains of that minute is time in all its purity, bone-white time.

Pourquoi nier l'évidente nécessité de la mémoire?

My memory of men is never lit up and illuminated like my memory of women.

Perhaps someone will have seen mine, the one I'm waiting for, just as I saw him, in a ditch when his hands were making their last appeal and his eyes no longer could see. Someone who will never know what that man was to me; someone whose name I'll never know.

I think about you but I don't say it anymore.

One day,I was already old, a man came up to me in the street.

she can remember everyone admiring a rare kind of evening they spoke of as something they ought to save from oblivion to describe to their children later. And that for her part she would have had it hidden, had that late summer evening buried and burned to ashes.

Yes, she can remember everyone admiring a rare kind of evening they spoke of as something the ought to save from oblivion to describe to their children later. And that for her part she would have had it hidden, had that late summer evening buried and burned to ashes.

Je me souviens mal des jours. L'éclairement solaire ternissait les couleurs, écrasait. Des nuits, je me souviens.Le bleu était plus loin que le ciel, il était derrière toutes les épaisseurs, il recouvrait le fond du monde. Le ciel, pour moi, c'était cette traînée de pure brillance qui traverse le bleu, cette fusion froide au-delà de toute couleur.

La historia está ahí, inevitable ya. La de un amor cegador. Siempre por venir, jamás olvidado.

Il se taisait toujours sur les images qu'il voyait derrière ses yeux fermés. On aurait dit qu'il aimait cette douleur, qu'il l'aimait comme il m'avait aimée, très fort, jusqu'à mourir peut-être, et que maintenant il la préférait à moi. »

Je l'ai embrassée dans ses petites rides, sur ses paupières fanées et le long de son front, au bord de ses cheveux, là où elle ne sait pas qu'existe l'odeur d'une fleur.

Con frecuencia, al terminar el trabajo, a uno le asalta el recuerdo de la más grande de las injusticias. Hablo de lo cotidiano de la vida. No es por la mañana, es al atardecer cuando eso invade las casas, nos invade a nosotros. Y si no se es así, no se es absolutamente nada. Se es: nada. Y siempre en todos los casos de todos los pueblos, se sabe.

Ese insensato amor que le profeso sigue siendo para mí un insondable misterio. No sé por qué le quería hasta ese extremo de querir morir de su muerte. Hacía diez años que nos habíamos separado y cuando eso sucedió raramente pensaba en él, le quería, parece, para siempre y nada nuevo podía alcanzar ese amor. Yo había olvidado la muerte.

Ils devraient toujours lire le livre à voix haute et claire, se tenir de toutes leurs forces exempts de toute mémoire de l'avoir jamais lu, dans la conviction de n'en connaître rien, et cela chaque soir.

El recuerdo de los hombres nunca surge con esa deslumbrante luminosidad que acompaña al de las mujeres

One of the pleasures of loving the Chinese man is to write him down. She may be loving him to have something to write. She has a story to tell because of having loved him. I listen to war veterans say that when they were dumb kids, they went to the Vietnam War (which the Vietnamese call the American War) to find something to write about.

Y.A.: Et après la mort, qu'est-ce qui reste? M.D.: Rien. Que les vivents qui se sourient, qui se souviennent.

Peste câÈ›iva ani, când te voi fi uitat si când, prin forÈ›a obiÈ™nuinÈ›ei, se vor mai petrece alte întâmpl?ri ca aceasta, îmi voi aminti de tine ca de uitarea dragostei înseÈ™i. M? voi gândi la povestea asta ca la oroarea uit?rii. O È™tiu deja - Marguerite Duras, Hiroshima dragostea mea.

No matter where she is, it is as though Lol is there for the first time. She no longer experiences the invariable distance that memory provides: she is there, in the present.

En Vauville, el recuerdo del canto de la mendiga vuelve a mí. Ese canto tan simple. El de los locos, de todos los locos, por todas partes, los de la indiferencia. El de la muerte fácil. Los de la muerte por obra del hambre, la de los muertos de los caminos, de las fosas, medio devorados por los perros, los tigres, las aves de presa, las ratas gigantes de los pantanos.

I know Lol Stein in the only way I can: through love.