Quotes About Memory

He said her name like it was something he'd already left behind. She could feel her heart twisting inside the walls of her chest.

I'm so tired I forget who I am sometimes.

The good and the beautiful is not forgotten; it lives in legend and in song.

And the Top spoke no more of his old love; for that dies away when the beloved objects has lain for five years in a roof gutter and got wet through; yes, one does not know her again when one meets her in the dust box.

ele pediu-me para rezar, mas eu só me lembrava da tabuada

Delayed is not forgotten!

Why go on? I mean, why record all this? Wouldn't it be better to surrender it to oblivion for all time? For those who were there certainly don't have to read it. And the others, and those who will come later? What if they read it only to enjoy something strange and uncanny and to make themselves feel more alive? Does it take an apocalypse to do that? Or a descent into the underworld?

It's not the dead even. They're gone. Nothing you can do about that. It's what's left behind - the echo. These woods you're walking through. There are some old timers who think a sound echoes here forever. Makes sense when you think about it. That Billingham kid. I'm sure he screamed. He screams, it echoes, just bounces back and forth, the sound getting smaller and smaller, but never entirely disappearing. Like a part of his is still calling out, even now.

I blinked and the images were gone. But I remembered how the laugh and the howl and the splash would ripple and echo in the stillness of our lake, and I wondered if ripples and echoes like those ever fully die away, if somewhere in the woods my father's joyful yelps still bounced quietly off the trees. Silly thought, but there you go.

Memory makes demands that you often can't keep. Memory is faulty because it insists on filling in the blanks.

I'm sorry, my dead wife mouthed.

The other: "Oh my God, we were like so wasted." "From beer?" "Beer and shots, yeah." "How did you get home?" "Randy drove." At the top of the stairs, Myron stiffened.

I remember everything about her. The way she looked. The way she smelled. The way she'd come home from her job so tired she could barely put her feet up. I don't think I've talked about her five times in the past twenty years. But I think about her every day. I think about why she gave me up. And I think about why I still miss her.

People had long memories. No matter how many years passed, he would always be the subject of whispers and innuendos.

So that was what Edna had been doing. Strolling down the street. Ignoring, as she often did, the sights and sounds. Lost in her own personal bliss of studying the faces of passersby. Noting cheek structure and mandibular depth, inter-eye distance and ear height, jaw contours and orbital spacing. And that was why, despite the new hair color and style, despite the fashionable glasses and adult makeup and clothing, Edna had recognized the missing girl.

Memories are something we reconstruct and piece together. They are fragments we manufacture to create what we think occurred or even simply hope to be true. In short, our memories are rarely accurate. They are biased reenactments.

You remember my friend Wendy Petino?" "Fellow model," I said. "Flaky as a Greek pastry." Shauna

Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing "Memory," but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life—a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself. From

She had learned that somewhere and stockpiled it in the back brain closet, the same closet where she stored information about Daryl Hannah being in Splash and Esperanza Diaz being the wrestler dubbed Little Pocahontas, the same closet that helped make Grace, in Jack's words, "Mistress of the Useless Factoid.

Maya had the strangest dream about the reading of Joe's will. The dream was surreal, one of those through-the-shower-stall nocturnal visions where you really can't remember what was said or where exactly you were or any of that. She only remembered one thing. Joe

Oh, I'm sorry, I forget your name. I keep calling you Hipster Pundit in my head, so can I just call you Chad?

Memories aren't kept on some microchip in the skull or filed away in a cabinet somewhere deep in our cranium. Memories are something we reconstruct and piece together. They are fragments we manufacture to create what we think occurred or even simply hope to be true. In short, our memories are rarely accurate. They are biased reenactments. Shorter still: We all see what we want to see.

Death ripples, echoes.

even in the flusher years in a country that no longer exists.