Quotes About Memory

You smell of cinnamon in spite of the mombins.' 'You smell of cinnamon too,' I'd murmur.

We don't take the ground with us, but we leave our footprints behind.

It's strange that those we miss the most Are those we take for granted.

Great music is that which penetrates the ear with facility and leaves the memory with difficulty. Magical music never leaves the memory.

The inequity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.

The iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.

They flee from me, that sometime did me seekWith naked foot, stalking in my chamber.

Forget not yet the tried intentOf such a truth as I have meant;My great travail so gladly spent,Forget not yet!

All writers-all people-have their stores of private and family legends which lie like a collection of half-forgotten, often violent toys on the floor of memory.

As you came from the holy landOf Walsinghame,Met you not with my true LoveBy the way as you came?

Time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.

Memory offers up its gifts only when jogged by something in the present. It isn't a storehouse of fixed images and words, but a dynamic associative network in the brain that is never quiet and is subject to revision each time we retrieve an old picture or old words.

Memory is essential to who we are, and memories can be both implicit and explicit - unconscious and conscious.

We project our feelings onto other people, but there is always a dynamic that creates those inventions. The fantasies are made between people, and the ideas about those people live inside us ... And, even after they die, they are still there. I am made of the dead.

True stories can't be told forward, only backward. We invent them from the vantage point of an ever-changing present and tell ourselves how they unfolded.

Forgetting," I said, "is probably as much a part of life as remembering. We're all amnesiacs.

I have begun to wonder what actually happens in our brains when we return to half-remembered places. What is memory's perspective? Does the man revise the boy's view or is the imprint relatively static, a vestige of what was once intimately known?

Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to the spots where they happened.

Sometimes even now I think I see him in the street or standing in a window or bent over a book in a coffee shop. And in that instant, before I understand that it's someone else, my lungs tighten and I lose my breath.

In effect, painting is the still memory of [the artist's] human motion, and our individual responses to it depend on who we are, on our character, which underlines the simple truth that no person leaves himself behind in order to look at a painting.

Six months isn't such a long time. That's how long it's been since I came to see you in May, but the fact is it's been much longer than that. We've spent years living inside each other.

No existe el futuro sin el pasado, porque lo que va a suceder no se puede imaginar más como una forma de repetición.

Infancy is irretrievable. Its memories live underground. To what extent they return by stealth or are triggered by various catalysts remains an ongoing question.

He hunched his shoulders and looked at the floor. With that movement, he entered the past. When he put on his jacket, kissed me again, and walked to the door, he was already a memory.