Quotes About Memory

Another part of getting older: you forgot what you wanted to remember, and remembered what you wanted to forget.

Passing time adds false memories and modifies real ones.

We fall from womb to tomb, from one blackness and toward another, remembering little of the one and knowing nothing of the other ... except through faith.

My heart's with you, Bill, no matter how it turns out. My heart is with all of them, and I think that, even if we forget each other, we'll remember in our dreams.

The color white is the absence of memory.

In the Land of Memory the time is always Now . In the Kingdom of Ago, the clocks tick... but their hands never move. There is an Unfound Door (O lost) and memory is the key which opens it.

Memory is the basis of every journey.

I think that, even if we forget each other, we'll remember in our dreams.

A person's memory is everything, really. Memory is identity. It's you.

She knew with suddeness and ease that this moment would be with her always, within hand's reach of memory. She doubted if they all sensed it - they had seen the world - but even George was silent for a minute as they looked, and the scene, the smell, even the sound of the band playing a faintly recognisable movie theme, was locked forever in her, and she was at peace.

Dead was the gift that kept on giving. Dead, like diamonds, was forever.

There were no ghosts. Only memory.

But who knows how long a grief may last? Isn't it possible that, even thirty or forty years after the death of a child or a brother or a sister, one may half waken, thinking of that person with the same lost emptiness, that feeling of places which may never be filled... not even in death?

It's funny how close the past is, sometimes. Sometimes it seems as if you could almost reach out and touch it. Only who really wants to?

It was how wars really ended, Dieffenbaker supposed -- not at truce tables but in cancer wards and office cafeterias and traffic jams. Wars died one tiny piece at a time, each piece something that fell like a memory, each lost like an echo that fades in winding hills. In the end even war ran up the white flag. Or so he hoped. He hoped that in the end even war surrendered.

And, of course, one of the great true facts of the world is this: for every old-timer who dies, there's a new old-timer coming along. And a good story never dies; it is always passed down.

The arguments against insanity fall through with a soft shirring sound; these are the sounds of dead voices on dead records floating down the broken shaft of memory. When I turn to you to ask if you remember, When I turn to you in our bed

Nothing screws with memory like repetition.

Don't look back, never look back. How often do people tell themselves that after an experience that is exceptionally good (or exceptionally bad?)? Often, I suppose. And the advice usually goes unheeded. Humans were built to look back; that's why we have tat swivel joint in our necks.

Io non miro con la mano; colui che mira con la mano ha dimenticato il volto di suo padre. Io miro con l'occhio. Io non sparo con la mano; colui che spara con la mano ha dimenticato il volto di suo padre. Io sparo con la mente. Io non uccido con la pistola; colui che uccide con la pistola ha dimenticato il volto di suo padre. Io uccido con il cuore.

How do we remember to remember? That's a question I've asked myself often since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. Or so I've come to believe.

Corey Bryant sank into a great forgetful river, and that river was time, and its waters were red.

The loss of memory isn't always the problem; sometimes--maybe even often--it's the solution.

That's all history is, after all: scar tissue.