Quotes About Memory

In the past, I had particularly loved her smell. She always smelled freshed, freshly washed or of freshed laundry or fresh sweat or freshly loved

if something hurts me, the hurts I suffered back then come back to me, and when I feel guilty, the feelings of guilt return; if I yearn for something today, or feel homesick, I feel the yearnings and homesickness from back then. The tectonic layers of our lives rest so tightly one on top of the other that we always come up against earlier events in later ones, not as matter that has been fully formed and pushed aside, but absolutely present and alive.

I know that I found it beautiful. But I cannot recapture it's beauty.

Which animal do you see when you hold me and close your eyes and think of animals?

We forget about the people we love sometimes.

I write to breath life back into memory to remind African-Americans of our rich and textured history. I also see myself as a "root," and for me the "fierce winds" include the marginalization-the downright segregation-of literature written by people of color.

Proust had his madeleines; I am devastated by the scent of yeast bread rising.

The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.

The rope has been torn; a knot Can tie it again, but It's been torn. Perhaps we'll meet again, but You won't find me In the place where we parted ways.

You who will emerge from the flood In which we have gone under Remember When you speak of our failings The dark time too Which you have escaped

A memória da humanidade para o sofrimento passado é surpreendentemente curta. Sua imaginação para o sofrimento futuro é ainda menor. É contra esta insensibilidade que devemos lutar. Porque a humanidade está ameaçada pelas guerras daqueles que pereceram no passado sob tentativas miseráveis, que, sem dúvida, se repetirão, se as mãos de quem as tornou públicas não forem esmagadas.

The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.

The older one becomes the quicker the present fades into sepia and the past looms up in glorious technicolour

What we remember is probably fiction anyway.

The Old Days, the Lost Days -- in the half-closed eyes of memory (and in fact) they never marched across a calendar; they huddled round a burning log, leaned on a certain table, or listened to those certain songs.

And still it was gone. Seeing it again could not be living it again. You can always rediscover an old path and wander over it, but the best yo an do then is say, 'Ah, yes, know this turning!' --or remind yourself that, while you remember that unforgettable valley, the valley no longer remembers you.

Emotion as well as reason belongs to the very stuff of history.

There appears, also, to be a possibility of a mind in Nature, although we have seen that intelligence is, strictly speaking, impossible. There cannot be perception, memory, comparison, or judgment; but may there not be a perfect mind, unchanging, calm, and still?

You've just read of a woman remembering an orange thrown through a window, without knowing why she remembers this. You will either remember reading this and know why you remember reading this, or you will remember reading this and not know why you remember reading this, or you will not remember reading this, possibly forever.

I thought about that old saying, how we can never go home again. But I think it's more like a piece of us stays behind when we leave -- a piece we can never reclaim, one that awaits our next visit and demands that we remember.

Mamma hadde forlatt denne verden og erobret friheten, og derfor kunne jeg også erobre den. Jeg savnet henne og skulle ønske jeg kunne få høre latteren hennes igjen. Men jeg visste med meg selv at hun fantes et sted, ett eller annet strålende, grenseløst sted. Hun passet på meg, heiet på meg. Og elsket meg.

C'mon, honey, don't be mad at me. I don't mean to lie, I just remember big." Buck Preston to CeeCee's neighbor, Miz Goodpepper, in Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

Nineteen words I counted them. That's all he had to say to me. Nineteen meaningless little words. And that's when my father died to me--right there in the driveway.

like a deep bruise, the memory of Momma's final day jolts me whenever I bump up against it. I suspect it always will. So much about my mother's life and death would forever remain a mystery