Quotes About Memory

Ahora que me ha puesto usted al corriente, haré lo posible por olvidarlo

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses grey, Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well-a-day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest.

A nation that forgets its past has no future

ANTIGONE È più lungo il tempo che occorre piacere ai morti piuttosto che ai vivi. È là infatti che giacerò per sempre.»

I remember you. You were like burning firelight in that cave, all shimmery, dancing color. I lean closer over the island, mesmerized by his words, his hand on my face. If he keeps talking this way, he's going to see me like that again. Tell me you thought about me. That you think about me now. I thought about you, I whisper, I've never stopped thinking about you. Somehow I doubt I ever will.

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos.

La vita sarebbe molto più facile se le conversazioni si potessero riavvolgere e cancellare come le registrazioni video.

Honeysuckle and jasmine!" I exclaim in sudden recognition. I have the Jo Malone bath oil at home.

I'm suddenly seeing the other side of me; the side I thought had disappeared forever. All this time, all my stuff was here. Suddenly I have a memory of Eric's words, that first time I asked him about Jon. 'You'd trust Jon with your life.' Maybe that's what I did. Trusted him with my life.

If he does love her, then maybe he's forgotten what love is supposed to be like

I still remember Mum. Kind of. I have dim splashes of memory like an unfinished watercolor.

Let every man in mankind's frailty consider his last day; and let none presume on his good fortune until he find Life, at his death, a memory without pain.

None but a fool or an infant could forget a father gone so far and cold. No. Lament is a pattern cut and fitted around my mind—like the bird who calls Itys! Itys! endlessly, bird of grief, angel of Zeus. O heartdragging Niobe, I count you a god: buried in rock yet always you weep.

It is the dead Not the living, who make the longest demands: We die for ever...

for I owe a longer allegiance to the dead than to the living:

I owe more to the dead, with whom I will spend a much longer time, than I will ever owe to the living.

He has the thousand-yard stare.

But this material offered more than variety of dramatic incident. These myths were the only national memory of the remote past, of a time before the Greeks invented the alphabet, so that, shifting and changing though they might be, they had the authority, for the audience, of what we call history.

the stabbing daggers, stab of memory raking me insane.

Not the shape of one I loved. The ashes of a ghost.

We have only a little time to please the living, But all eternity to love the dead.

Noor was Sajida's secret. She knew the exact moment her child was conceived. Purple passed slowly, the lowest of clouds, over her eyes. Bathed in such magnificent color, Sajida lay perfectly still. Much later, she would try to relive the exact moment, as if she needed to understand how the fact of her child could have entered her body and mind at the same time. But Sajida would not summon the gentle shade ever again.

He was reminded of what he liked about Irene so much; that she had not written her war away, she claimed it as her own again and again--near the chichra tree in Five Queen's Road and along the cobbled sidewalk opposite a canal in Maastricht and who knows how many more times in the privacy of her own thoughts.

The girl made an impression on me, and I forgot her; the other made no impression, and her I can remember.