Quotes About Memory

Mata algo en la gente, algo que no puede recobrarse

could think of his daughter only as a very small girl who had once sat beside him in a distant room and looked at him with solemn delight, as a lovely child who long ago had died.

Though he remembered the authors and their works and their dates and

war doesn't merely kill off a few thousand or a few hundred thousand young men. It kills off something in a people that can never be brought back. And if a people goes through enough wars, pretty soon all that's left is the brute, the creature that we—you and I and others like us—have brought up from the slime.

As if it were important, he strained his memory; beside the sofa there had been a large lamp with a round milk-white base encircled by a chain of painted roses, and beyond that, on the wall, neatly framed, was a series of water colors done by a forgotten aunt during her Grand Tour.

The past gathered out of the darkness where it stayed, and the dead raised themselves to live before him; and the past and the dead flowed into the present among the alive, so that he had for an intense instant a vision of denseness into which he was compacted and from which he could not escape, and had no wish to escape.

Even now, after all these years, I can taste the bitter sweetness of that body, and feel beneath me the firm warmth. It is odd that I can do so, for I know that the flesh of Julius Antonius now is smoke, and is dispersed into the air. That body is no more, and my body remains upon this earth. It is odd to know that. No other man has touched me since that afternoon. No man shall touch me for as long as I shall live.

When I was quite small I would sometimes dream of a city - which was strange, because it began before I even knew what a city was.

I felt a poignant memory of those desolate patches of disillusion which are the shocks of growing up. The discovery that one lived in a world which could pay honour where honour was not due, was just such a one. The values were rocked, the dependable was suddenly flimsy, the solid became hollow, gold turned to brass, there was no integrity anywhere …

A tan?ili sme. PÃ…â"¢i ozvÄ›ne minulosti, na prahu neznámé budoucnosti.

There was nothing but myself. I hung in a timeless, spaceless, forceless void that was neither light, nor dark. I had entity, but no form; awareness, but no senses; mind, but no memory. I wondered, is this – this nothingness – my soul? And it seemed that I had wondered that always, and should go on wondering it for ever…

Te recordaré, abuelo. Te recordaré. Nunca se me olvidará lo que me dijiste. Es sólo el miedo lo que es diabólico...

As Proust put it, the only paradises are those we have lost.

I have no memory of my mother ever kissing me.

Being only out of sight, you remember, not lost, nor asleep, nor annihilated, he goes on loving. To love must mean to think of, to care for, to hope for, to pray for, not less out of a body than it.

Sweetest the strain when in the song The singer has been lost.

Past and future to him were the realities; the present dull, meaningless, only significant if, as now, going back along the sands, he could say to himself: 'Later on, I shall remember.

Do you recall a shepherd's crook, Laurence? And Gladstone-bag? We may be Liberals, but I didn't know we had a Gladstone-bag.

We can all remember saying something inadequate in a crisis or even, the more unbalanced of us, giggling at the news of death.

Un niño pequeño aprende algo nuevo cada día; un anciona olvida algo cada día. Los nombres desaparecen, las fechas ya no significan nada, las secuencias se tornan confusas y las caras borrosas. La primera infancia y la vejez son épocas agotadoras

Days? Had it only been days? Does the heart count days, or even hours?

But more often than not the missing face has been sucked into the engines of the Nazi death machine, like an unlucky lapwing hitting the propeller of a Lancaster bomber-nothing left but feathers blowing away in the aircraft's wake, as if those warm wings and beating heart had never existed.

But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France—a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

The soaring mountains rose around her, and the poets' waters glittered beneath her in the valleys of memory—hosts of golden daffodils, Swallows and Amazons, Peter Rabbit. She