Quotes About Memory

Viniste a visitarme en sueños pero el vacío que dejaste cuando te fuiste fue realidad.

me impresionaron sus grandes ojos dorados; después de haberme enamorado ya aquella imagen no la olvidé

Revolution is impersonal; it will take their lives, even utilizing their memory as an example or as an instrument for domesticating the youth who follow them.

His death brings new experience to my life - that of a wound that will not heal.

What is the meaning of the immense silence that surrounds the dead?

Hemos perdido mucho, tal vez todo, también el honor. Nos queda una cosa: el glorioso recuerdo del más maravilloso ejército que jamás haya existido y del más grandioso combate que jamás haya tenido lugar. Mantener su memoria en medio de esta época de renegados y de atrofia moral es el más altivo deber de todo aquel que luchó por la causa de Alemania no sólo con el fusil y la granada de mano sino también con el alma y el corazón.

Ik begrijp niet hoe jij, hoe iemand die me vroeger zo imponeerde - ik lieg niet - zo in de familiepoel kan wegzinken.' Hoe moest ik hem dat uitleggen? Ik glimlachte verlegen en bracht het gesprek op zijn zus.

Un uomo è quello che ha commesso. Se dimentica è un bicchiere messo alla rovescia, un vuoto chiuso.

E come la riconosco? Sono successi dieci anni, un sacco di tempo. - "Guaglio", il tempo non è un sacco, magari è un bosco. Se hai conosciuto la foglia, poi riconosci l'albero. Se l'hai vista negli occhi, la ritroverai. Pure se è passato un bosco di tempo.

They conjure up the retrospective vision of an unsurpassable happiness, enjoyed in the past, unattainable every after, yet enduringly alive in the memory: a bygone happiness ended by death; and not, as George III's paraphrase implies, a present happiness menaced by death.

The real trouble is this: giving expression to thought by the observable medium of words is like the work of the silkworm. In being made into silk, the material achieves its value. But in the light of day it stiffens; it becomes something alien, no longer malleable. True, we can then more easily and freely recall the same thought, but perhaps we can never experience it again in its original freshness.

She laughed. I closed my eyes. It sounded damn mournful, that laugh of hers echoing off the square.

They never returned. Only the old were left. And they began to die off. Those who did not die left the village by other means. In the end there was only one widow left, a dressmaker, and she began to sew the visages of those who had vanished. She hand-stitched the bodies and the clothes; she perfected the faces. Each and every doll was a precise replica of someone who once lived there.

An ancient old raisin of a man. I

Erasmus and I used to watch her as she sat for her Italian lessons in the afternoon. She was the most beautiful creature we knew. You were children, his father said. You knew nothing of beauty. Children know everything about beauty, Titch countered softly. It is adults who have forgotten.

Was I shocked to find that the world of my childhood could be contained in a single crate?

They memorize everything and learn... nothing.

We are all exiles from our past , and, as such, we need to recapture it.

There are moments when the past ceases to be a form of the present. Rain and tears look alike.

Memory and time, both immaterial, are rivers with no banks and constantly merging. Both escape our will, though we depend on them. Measured but measured by whom or by what? The one is inside, the other, outside or so it seems, but is that true? Time seems also buried deep in us but where? Memory is right here, in the head, but it can exit, abandon that head, leave it behind, disappear. Memory, a sanctuary of infinite patience.

Silence is the creation of space, a space that memory needs to use . . . an incubator. We're dealing here with dimensions, stretching our inner muscles, pushing aside any interference. We're dealing with numbers, but not counting. Silence demands the nature of night, even in full day, it demands shadows.

The more he thought about it, the more his childhood seemed like a cavity in somebody else's tooth--unhealthy, but no big deal, at least not to him.

People have short memories, he said, especially when bad things are concerned. People tend to forget, he said, but you won't forget.

I think she cried at my funeral. It's not that I'm conceited or anything, but I'm pretty sure. Sometimes I can actually picture her talking about me to some guy she feels close to. Talking about me dying. About how they lowered me into the grave, kind of shrivelled up and pitiful, like an old chocolate bar. About how we never really got a chance. And afterwards the guy fucks her, a fuck that's all about making her feel better.