Quotes About Memory

Nel flusso indefinito del tempo e degli stati d'animo gran parte della storia è incisa nei sensi. [E cose di nessuna importanza, insostituibili, ritornano così all'improvviso, in un caffè.]

I silently implored: May the memory of this moment, here, the glowing impression of the two of us facing each other in this warm, bright place, drinking lovely hot tea, help save him, even a little bit. Words, too explicit, always cast a shadow over that faint glow. Outside, night had come. The indigo-colored air was growing colder.

Alla fine dell'estate chi è stato l'ultimo ad uscire dal mare? L'ultimo è tornato a casa senza chiudere il coperchio del mare. E da allora per tutto questo tempo il mare è rimasto scoperchiato.

Penso che non potrò dimenticare la bellezza del suo pianto. Ti faceva sentire che l'anima racchiude qualcosa di prezioso.

I'd never see my own grandmother again.

Our bodies forgot, left things behind, without our hearts meaning to. Then the things that were left behind curled up somewhere deep inside us, and hunkered down. Time didn't move at the same speed for them, so they always left a lump, something unresolved.

That resplendent space created by a piece of fiction can really expand the width of time... Clearly there is a spot somewhere inside our heads that records the feelings we had when we read the book, and it stays with us forever

my mother disappeared from my life forever.

It was only I who had forgotten how well we knew each other.

I silently implored: May the memory of this moment, here, the glowing impression of the two of us facing each other in this warm bright place, drinking lovely hot tea, help save him, even a little bit.

Time expands and contracts. When it expands, it's like pitch: it folds people in its arms and holds them forever in its embrace. It doesn't let us go very easily. Sometimes you go back again to the place you've just come from, stop and close your eyes, and realize that not a second has passed, and time just leaves you there, stranded, in the darkness.

I silently implored: May the memory of this moment, here, the glowing impression of the two of us facing each other in this warm, bright place, drinking lovely hot tea, help save him, even a little bit. Words, too explicit, always cast a shadow over that faint glow.

Ciò che è inciso nel corpo non scompare.

Pregai che il ricordo di questo momento in cui prendevamo un tè delizioso e bollente seduti l'uno di fronte all'altro in un posto piacevole e caldo restasse in lui come una scia luminosa e lo aiutasse. Le parole sono sempre troppo crude e finiscono con lo spegnere luci preziose e fievoli come quella.

Parting & death are both terribly painful. But to keep nursing the memory of a love so great you can't believe you'll ever love again is a useless drain on a woman's energies.

When I woke up, for a second, I could still vividly feel the sensation of my arms around my mother's neck, and my chest against hers. I was overcome by such a deep yearning that I cried as much as I'd ever cried in my life.

I accidentally skipped Sotaro.

Everything that had happened was shockingly beautiful, enough to make you crazy.

I was raped in a driveway when I was eleven.... It was a terrible experience because we had all that gravel.

What is any achievement, however great it was, once time itself is dead?

I pretty much use sketchbooks to note down great ideas of somebody else's I've just had. A good sketchbook means you don't actually need to bother with having a memory yourself. You can get away with a fair bit of substance abuse if you always carry a notepad and a sharp pencil around with you.

They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time

I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.

The past is just such a retreat for me, I go there eagerly, rubbing my hands and shaking off the cold present and the colder future. And yet, what existence, really, does it have, the past? After all, it is only what the present was, once, the present that is gone, no more than that.