Quotes About Memory

I never thought to see you again, I never thought to seek you.

When he grasped her hand, he felt the calluses on her palm. He was thinking about how tough she was, and then she smiled. It was tentative and brief but it touched his heart, and then she was gone. He watched while she disappeared over the hill and then took the box into the kitchen, refilled his coffee and opened the lid. 36%

yet for those of his generation, the time spent in war was often clearer than the recent past. Perhaps that was because cold, and fear, and the constant presence of death had formed an acid that etched the war memories indelibly in the mind. It had taken a long time for everyday life to override the stories of past battles that had once dominated the conversation whenever his old friends gathered.

While he was alive, he was impossible to ignore; once he had gone, he was impossible to imitate.

And when you died I took you down to the river. And when I died you waited for me by the shore. So it was that time passed between us.

It's not a real past….The past is really not that interesting.

Look," I said to the girls, and they offered a polite coo of awe. I thought of the discrete memories of my childhood—vivid moments rising above the vagueness of long stretches of unremembered time—and I wondered if they would recall this day, and the five of us together.

I want to believe that my parents found a way to bypass time that night, to compress and expand their lives together, to live out their whole lives again in their goodbye.

The event had not even existed until I'd heard the story. It happened this way for each of us, one by one, across the island, a structure suddenly exploding onto the placid empty plain of our history.

Past, present, and future too swirl together, distinguishable but not delineated by any sort of grammar beyond the one our hearts impose.

There are wounds that heal in no time, there are wounds that heal with time, there are wounds that remains wounds for eternity.

Life rushed at her after her father died, as if to remind her that there can be no less life, that there can be no deprivation of life, that life is an endless and eternal living, even if your father is dead.

It was the sound of him alive, and the very last sound he made. Though the last sound he made was no sound at all-the sound of the breath that did not come.

You were very loving to me and i only remember the loving parts of you now

The more she thinks about the sort of maroonish light in his room those nights, and the light of the candel flickering, she knows that the colour of that room is how they all felt, and that colour is not just a representation of the world, but of the feelings in a room, and the meaningfulness of a room in time, because in that colour, her father died. She had never seen that colour before. It was the colour of a father dying.

Maybe if she just lay on the bed for a while she would go to sleep and wake up remembering who she was. Or, maybe she would wake up and find herself on the train again, stuck in a loop like Bill Murray's character in Groundhog Day, waking up in precisely the same circumstances, day after day, month after month. How can I remember an old movie but not my own name?    

You are a question I will carry through Februaries far into my future. Young I can't imagine how long those winters last.

I'll take the dream I had last night, And put it in my freezer, So someday long and far away, When I'm an old grey greezer, I'll take it out and thaw it out, This lovely dream I've frozen, And boil it up and sit me down And dip my old cold toes in.

I dreamt about you last night. Fell out of bed twice

Nothing passes. Everything stays with you. Everything makes it's mark.

JO watches her go, leaning against the doorpost. Then she looks round the room, smiling a little to herself -- she remembers GEOF.] JO: As I was going up Pippin Hill, Pippin Hill was dirty. And there I met a pretty miss, And she dropped me a curtsy. Little miss, pretty miss, Blessings light upon you. If I had half a crown a day, I'd gladly spend it on you. Curtain.

Language is a terrible, cold thing, I think. One may recount an event, calmly selecting the most suitable words, that to remember without benefit of ink is almost beyond bearing. We accept the counterfeit and are thankful, for it spares us the awful weight of our lives.

First off, it's not junk," Arthur said, his voice rising. "It started on an island in World War II. With things from an island. It started with Death and War.

Bird looked back at Pastor. *Why did you bite Jeremy?* *Because I felt like it.* *Is it out of your system now? Feel better now?* *Actually, I do* Jeremy piped in; *No big deal. He bit, I kicked; we're even* ... No wonder horses get messed up. By the time people get around it hitting them, the horses have forgotten the whole thing.