Quotes About Memory

We understand what death is only by suddenly remembering the face of someone who has been a matter of indifference to us.

Better than anyone I am able to forgive on the spot. My desire for revenge comes late, too late, when memory of the offense is fading and when, the incitation to action having become virtually nonexistent, I have only one recourse: to deplore my 'good feelings'.

Incapable of getting up, nailed to my bed, I drift with the whims of my memory

Man is not content to be man. But he doesn't know what to revert to, nor how to recover a state of which he has no clear memory. His nostalgia for it is the basis of his being, and it is by such nostalgia he communicates with all that remains of what is oldest in himself.

our past so quickly stops being "ours" and turns into history, something which no longer concerns anyone.

Mine still, this moment passes by, escapes me, and is buried forever. Am I going to commit myself with the next? I make up my mind: it is here, it belongs to me — and already is long since past. From morning to night, fabricating the past!

I am my heart's undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

My earliest memory is seeing Michael Jackson in Melbourne with my sister when I was about ten. I still have this souvenir stick with a glove that would light up and make a peace sign in a bunch of different colors. I'm so happy my mom didn't throw that out.

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it.

I want to see how I can exist by myself. I want to be allowed to live inside my memory.

I have woken up inside one of my own memories. I am really here, yet I know I am not.

in every scar there is a story. The salve is the telling itself.

perpetuating the pain of the past. Is the telling the salve or the wound?

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it.

Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

Pain—has an Element of Blank—It cannot recollectWhen it begun—or if there wereA time when it was not—

A Drunkard cannot meet a CorkWithout a Revery—And so encountering a FlyThis January DayJamaicas of Remembrance stirThat send me reeling in.

Plastic tries to remember a fur-losing accident, but it must have slipped her mind.

I believe that there are no memories that are okay to forget. Every man's memory is his private literature. Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That's why it's a comfort to go hand in hand.

We carry our past with us everywhere we go.

Theodora never married. Love did not, however, kill her—at least, if it did, it was a long time at the task, as she survived these events more than sixty years. She never, seemingly, forgot the past.

The facts will be known to our children's children, though not to us.

Mammalian furballs dream. So do birds and big-brained dinosaurs like raptors. But a rich dreamtime requires extra brain capacity where memory can mix with fantasy. Turtles and lizards and snakes sleep the dreamless sleep of the small-brained.

Science cannot go outside of the sphere of abstractions. In this respect it is infinitely inferior to art, which, in its turn, is peculiarly concerned also with general types and general situations, but which incarnates them by an artifice of its own in forms which, if they are not living in the sense of real life, none the less excite in our imagination the memory and sentiment of life.