Quotes About Memory

Yo sé cómo le brillaban antes los ojos como si fueran charcos alumbrados por la luna. Pero de pronto se destiñeron, se le borro la mirada como si la hubieran revolcado en la tierra.

Me mataron los murmullos

Él creía conocerla. Y aun cuando no hubiera sido así, ¿acaso no era suficiente saber que era la criatura más querida por él sobre la tierra? Y que además, y esto era lo más importante, le serviría para irse de la vida alumbrándose con aquella imagen que borraría todos los demás recuerdos.

Y ahí el veterano se acordó de la charla sobre las milanesas. El culo y las milanesas, valores universales.

Le hacía acordar y le hacía doler todavía, sin embargo se sentía tan golpeado que casi podía recordar los golpes que vendrían. Su miedo era el recuerdo del dolor futuro. Eso.

El pasado siempre volvía, vivía en los recuerdos, en las pasiones mal tapadas por capas y capas de olvido.

One advantage women throughout time have had is that the little boy in men always remembers a time when women were all-powerful. The men bumped into each other as they ran to do her bidding.

Were I to die tomorrow, my soul would remember you. ~Nicholas Stafford

One advantage women throughout time have had is that the little boy in men always remember a time when women were all-powerful.

You have made him live.

I make a rule never to remember anything before last week. It makes life more interesting

You can greet even the dullest acquaintance with pleasure, if you have forgotten their dreary story.

Under the greenwood tree, who something something me", tum-te-tum the weather,' Tom remarked. 'Shocking memory for poetry.

But it only passes through her mind, and then, like a dusty book consigned to a shelf, it joins the vast sad library of things left unsaid.

life isn't like a book, you know: you can never turn back to a page

An orange day, a happy day, a brand-new day in the secret language that only the three of us seemed to understand. "Mmmmm," Daddy said, taking a bite of his roll. "Orange wakes you up, but cinnamon makes you remember.

People I had never seen before flocked in, their faces showing a longing you never saw for cake. People's eyes lit up for a cupcake, cake seemed to signal celebration. But their eyes got filmy, watery, misty when we handed them a slice of pie. Pie was memory. Nostalgia. Pie made people recall simpler, maybe happier times.

And every feeling was the heart of a story. And we all had a story.

There was only this, the past that you carried in your memory, and the present, which was undecipherable, and the unknowable future, which might already be inside you, leaking out in unreadable script but which you could never in a million years guess.

He hangs on now, pressing his hand lightly against the wall, below the window, waiting for the familiar arrow of pain. Only there is none. An oddly pleasant swell of memory, a wave of warmth flooding over him, sliding back, slowly. It is a first

Make notes—I've lost more material than I've ever written. Contrary to popular opinion, it's not still up there in one's brain. It's in outer space and it ain't coming back.

The spirit lived on in the hearts of those left behind. She felt that her brother's spirit would be with her, working beside her.

THE ORDINARY RESPONSE TO ATROCITIES is to banish them from consciousness. Certain violations of the social compact are too terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word unspeakable. Atrocities, however, refuse to be buried.

Most of our informants [incest survivors] remembered their mothers as weak and powerless, finding their only dignity in martyrdom.