Quotes About Memory

Le baiser frappe comme la foudre, l'amour passe comme un orage, puis la vie, de nouveau, se calme comme le ciel, et recommence ainsi qu'avant. Se souvient- on d'un nuage ?

When art becomes independent and paints its world in dazzling colors, a moment of life has grown old. Such a moment cannot be rejuvenated by dazzling colors, it can only be evoked in memory. The greatness of art only emerges at the dusk of life.

How we remember changes how we have lived. Time runs both ways. We make stories of our lives.

By things so achingly small are lives measured and marred.

Branching paths. The turning of days and seasons and years. Life offered you love sometimes, sorrow often. If you were very fortunate, true friendship. Sometimes war came. You did what you could to shape your own peace, before you crossed over to the night and left the world behind, as all men did, to be forgotten or remembered, as time or love allowed.

Tigana, let my memory of you be like a blade in my soul.

If you are successful, someday you'll have a hard time even remembering what year you launched. If you are unsuccessful, it won't matter.

Only the victors have stories to tell. We, the vanquished, were all cowards and weaklings by then, whose memories, fears, and enthusiasms should not be remembered.

And I can remember a tear running down my frozen cheek—a tear neither of pain nor of joy but of emotion created by intense experience.

cuando somos niños oímos y soñamos, albergamos ideas a medio cuajar y, cuando al hacernos hombres intentamos recordar, nos vemos estorbados y convertidos en seres prosaicos por el veneno de la vida.

If I shut my eyes it returns: the evocation of a whole wood, a whole world of wood-darkness and flowers and birds and late summer silence, of a million leaves turning mellowly to death. It becomes then more than the mere memory of a wood, the first and the best wood I have ever known. It is the redistillation of another and more lovely world.

Memory sometimes makes merciful deletions.

But the ship swept on, and the dusk hushed the hum of the day, and the first stars above blinked answers to the early fireflies on the banks as that jungle fell far behind, leaving only its fragrance as a memory that it had been.

all which is forgotten need not necessarily be dead

Chronophagos, the Devourer of Time, the Eater of Hours. What man remembereth even the hour of his death if the Chronophagos hath devoured it? —Nicephoros Attaliades, The Testament of Nightmares

and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.

there are some experiences and intimations which scar too deeply to permit of healing, and leave only such an added sensitiveness that memory reinspires all the original horror.

We were too late for the elevated, and walked back downtown through Hanover Street. I remember that wall. We switched from Tremont up Beacon, and Pickman left me at the corner of Joy, where I turned off. I never spoke to him again.

If heaven is merciful, it will some day efface from my consciousness the sight that I saw, and let me live my last years in peace.

Ultimate horror often paralyzes memory in a merciful way.

I did not shriek, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind shrieked for me as in that same second there crashed down upon my mind a single and fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory.

Kuranes was not modern, and did not think like others who wrote. Whilst they strove to strip from life its embroidered robes of myth, and to shew in naked ugliness the foul thing that is reality, Kuranes sought for beauty alone.1 When truth and experience failed to reveal it, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and found it on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

Bellek baz? an?lar? unutmakla, bazen çok merhamet gösterir.

then—and a shirt that had not seen a wash-