Quotes About Memory

I do know them each by heart because

Le parfum de l'âme, c'est le souvenir. C'est la partie la plus délicate, la plus suave du coeur, qui se détache pour embrasser un autre coeur et le suivre partout. L'affection d'un absent n'est plus qu'un parfum, mais qu'il est doux.

arrachons, s'il se peut, au néant de l'oubli, le sillon de Germain, le fin laboureur

If you do not cease loving me, you will see me, you will feel me, you will hear me everywhere. My form will be before your eyes because it will remain engraved on your mind; my voice will echo in your ear because it will remain in your heart's memory: my spirit will again reveal itself to your spirit because your soul understands me and knows me completely.

Le mal du pays fait cet effet-là à tout le monde : il transforme les objets de nos souvenirs en idéalités poétiques, dont les qualités grandissent à nos yeux, tandis que les défauts s'adoucissent toujours avec le temps et l'absence, et vont jusqu'à s'effacer dans notre imagination.

J'ai peine à croire qu'en perdant ceux qu'on aime on conserve son âme entière.

Memory... is an internal rumor.

What I mean to say is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Not lonely, not lost, not freakish, but wise, each in his or her own way. Our departures caused pain. Those who had loved us sat upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved, I say, and remembering us, even many years later, people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.

We have loved each other well, dear Willie, but now, for reasons we cannot understand, that bond has been broken. But our bond can never be broken. As long as I live, you will always be with me, child.

Sometimes we might poop a bit if we are fresh. Which is just what I did, out on the cart that day: I pooped a bit while fresh, in my sick-box, out of rage, and what was the result? I have kept that poop with me all this time, and as a matter of fact—I hope you do not find this rude, young sir, or off-putting, I hope it does not impair our nascent friendship—that poop is still down there, at this moment, in my sick-box, albeit much dryer!

I had my moments. My free, uninterrupted, discretionary moments. Strange, though: it is the memory of those moments that bothers me the most. The thought, specifically, that other men enjoyed whole lifetimes comprised of such moments. (Thomas Havens)

Of suddenly remembering what was lost.

But hopeful dear us, we forget.

We have loved each other well, dear Willie, but now, for reasons we cannot understand, that bond has been broken. But our bond can never be broken. As long as I live, you will always be with me, child. Then let out a sob.

La «conexión» de la corteza individual a los bancos electromagnéticos de memoria y de inteligencia artificial alterarán los contornos del yo, de la persona circunscrita por la senectud y la muerte.

There's an old saying in Tennessee - I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee - that says, fool me once, shame on - shame on you. Fool me - you can't get fooled again.

EVERY PILOT REMEMBERS his first flight. For me, it was in a Cessna 172 at Moody Air Force Base in Valdosta, Georgia, in 1968.

a world where yesterday's classmate and fellow altar server becomes tomorrow's martyr to the firing squads.

J'écris : j'écris parce que nous avons vécu ensemble, parce que j'ai été un parmi eux, ombre au milieu de leurs ombres, corps près de leur corps ; j'écris parce qu'ils ont laissé en moi leur marque indélébile et que la trace en est l'écriture : leur souvenir est mort à l'écriture ; l'écriture est le souvenir de leur mort et l'affirmation de ma vie.

Je me souviens de Dop Dop Dop, adoptez le shampooing Dop. (Je me souviens, 1978)

No tengo otra opción que evocar lo que demasiado tiempo llamé lo irrevocable; lo que fue, lo que se detuvo, lo que fue clausurado: eso que sin duda fue para no ser más hoy, pero que fue también para que yo sea todavía

It is the twenty-third of June nineteen seventy-five, and it is eight o'clock in the evening. Seated at his jigsaw puzzle, Bartlebooth has just died.

Il a suffi, il a presque suffi, un jour de mai où il faisait trop chaud, de l'inopportune conjonction d'un text dont tu avais perdu le fil, d'un bol de Nescafé au goût soudain trop amer [...]

It is distance that creates nostalgia.