Quotes About Memory

And she kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that I could never tell my friends about out loud. It was the kind of kiss that made me know that I was never so happy in my whole life.

I wish I knew. It might make me miss him more clearly. It might have made sad sense.

Five minutes of a lifetime

It's like my very first memory, which I guess is the first time I was aware that I was alive.

I would tell you about the rest of the night, but i honestly dont remember much about it. It's all a very sad daze.

No recuerdo a dónde íbamos o de dónde veníamos, incluso no recuerdo la temporada, sólo recuerdo caminar en medio de los dos y sentir por primera vez que pertenecía a algún lugar.

I don't remember where we were walking to or where we were walking from. I don't even remember the season. I just remember walking between them and feeling for the first time that I belonged somewhere.

And when he was lying in the ground next to her, her photographs would be thrown in the trash because her face wouldn't mean anything to anyone else. He was the last person alive who knew her and loved her.

No todas las heridas dejan huella

I just remembered what made me think of all this. I'm going to write it down because maybe if I do I won't have to think about it. And I won't get upset.

I would tell you about the rest of the night, but I honestly don't remember much about it. It's all a very sad daze.

I may be just an empty flesh terminal reliant on technology for all my ideas, memories and relationships, but I am confident that all of that everything that makes me a unique human being is still out there somewhere, safe in a theoretical storage space owned by giant, multinational corporations.

For me," he says, "the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew." In a new poem, he wrote, he "meets himself coming home.

A dead soldier was stretched with his face hidden in his arm. Farther off there was a group of four or five corpses keeping mournful company. A hot sun had blazed upon the spot. In this place the youth felt that he was an invader. This forgotten part of the battleground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried, in the vague apprehension that one of the swollen forms would rise and tell him to begone.

For years I had been living in a kind of eternal present, shutting off all the past which disagreed with me, letting through only the most censored memories. As for the future, nothing was thought out. It simply happened, like the turning of the page. In filling my life with books, I was ... surrounding myself with other people's stories in order to obliterate my own.

Gaia visited her daughter Mnemosyne, who was busy being unpronounceable.

Old professors never die, they just lose their faculties.

We achieve immortality not through ambrosia and ichor but through history and reputation. Through statues and epic song.

Once, in his first term, Cartwright had been bold enough to ask him why he was clever, what exercises he did to keep his brain fit. Healey had laughed. It's memory, Cartwright, old dear. Memory, the mother of the Muses... at least that's what thingummy said. Who? You know, what's his name, Greek poet chap. Wrote the Theogony... what was he called? Begins with an 'H'. Homer? No, dear. Not Homer, the other one. No, it's gone. Anyway. Memory, that's the key.

That's why I love talking and teaching: the act of reproducing ideas out loud reinforces them in the head. If, every time you read a complex book or idea, you had to explain it to someone else, you'd never forget it.

Et in arcadia ego.' Why should they notice it? Its shadow will be on them soon enough and they in turn will be wagging fingers at their children and saying, 'I too once lived in arcadia, you know …' and their children will not listen either.

The memory of pain soon goes, the memory of pleasure lingers, that is one of life's happier truths.

The service took place on one of those afternoons that occur only in the past.

I could spend thousands now on the highest end hi-fi in the world and know that, for all the wattage and purity of signal, the music would never quite touch me again as it did then from that primitive monaural system. But nor could anything quite touch me now as it did then.