Quotes About Memory

I heard a definition once: Happiness is health and a short memory! I wish I'd invented it, because it is very true.

Yes. I remember." His voice had deepened. I remember. Mina did, too, every conversation they'd had over breakfast, and it made her heart ache. Such a strange thing... She suddenly couldn't laugh anymore.

He expelled a long breath, smiled slightly as if in memory. "I heard them in their room. She said she was a bit tired, and he said that perhaps it was time to see what came next.

And even though she could remember most of the sentences and every plot point, the story would never be what it had been. She would never again be who she'd been.

I went to your funeral, Annie. She hardened herself against the thickness in his voice, and reached for the door handle. Was it nice? He slid in front of her, his back against the door. His hard smile was at her eye level. I don't know. I only got through it with the help of a fifth, so I was too drunk to see much of anything.

No matter what tears were shed or what trials were faced, some things would stay the same. There would always be day and night, stars and sky, hope and rest. There would always be love, always compassion, and there would always be Skandranon. And forever, in the hearts of all the Clans, there would be Urtho—and for his memory, a moment of silence.

My kith and kin have long since vanished into time—

Oh, well. I'll just tuck it in my subconscious, and it'll wake me up in the middle of the night, probably.

That One Man (from The People Who Didn't Say Goodbye) There is always that one man who you can't avoid that one face that becomes the only representative of Heaven.

Why is it that we always remember that people forget; but we always forget that they remember? I used to remember...but I forgot!

Love doesn't die, People do. So, when all that's left of me Is love, Give me away.

He watched her almost with indifference -for it was all in the past-and even the present was nothing to the pride of his memory.

Poem Out of the overlapping Leaves of my brain came tapping… Tapping… a voice that is not mine alone: Nor can the woodpecker Claim it as his own: the flicker Deep in the foliage belongs to neither Birds, men or dreams. It is as far away as childhood seems.

Funny, how once you touched off a memory, it was like pulling out a stitch—all the others kept unraveling

I don't lose time playing verbal games, trying to remember what I forgot. "I don't remember your name," says one octogenarian to another. "Tell me what it is." The second one pauses: "How soon do you have to know?" he asks.

Our struggle is also a struggle of memory against forgetting.

We are born and have our being in a place of memory. We chart our lives by everything we remember from the mundane moment to the majestic. We know ourselves through the art and act of remembering. Memories offer us a world where there is no death, where we are sustained by rituals of regard and recollection

Poems of lamentation allow the melancholic loss that never truly disappears to be given voice. Like a slow solemn musical refrain played again and again, they call us to remember and mourn, to know again that as we work for change our struggle is also a struggle of memory against forgetting.

For he mixes up unanswerable things with false conclusions, he is perpetually letting the cat out of the bag and exposing our tricks, putting a colour to our actions, disturbing us with our own memory, indecently revealing corners of the soul.

An important verity about knowledge is that the brain works most effectively with consciously retained information. We more easily remember what we want to recall later. When we feed our fourteen billion brain cells with information that will enrich us and help others, we are really learning to Think Big.

The human brain has billions of neurons and hundreds of billions of interconnections. It can process more than two million bits of information per second and can remember everything you have ever seen or heard.

Memory,' wrote the Lebanese novelist Elias Khoury, is a process of organizing what to forget.

Despair is not solid. Neither is joy. They alternate, and contain each other. There is no joy that is not also touched by sorrow, no grief that is not rendered sharper by the memory of bliss. If things move forward in one direction and not another, they do so by rolling there, passing through the same tight orbit, touching here an ecstasy, there another shattering loss.

I could imagine it in a way that felt like remembering