Quotes About Memory

You must not love them. It is easy to love power because power tells you it is majesty and beauty and greatness. But the gods were monsters. Do not even love their memory. The gods are dead.

How does it feel," whispered Faith, "to come back to your memories and find yourself missing and a dead person in your place? I would feel as if I were disappearing. I would wonder if my father wanted to remember me at all. Do you ever have nightmares where you wake up and find that there is nothing of you left, just a dead person sitting up and wearing somebody else's face?" She saw Paul flinch. She had touched a nerve, and that knowledge made her fiercely happy.

How does it feel, whispered Faith, to come back to your memories and find yourself missing and a dead person in your place?

As travel pushes me forward, memory keeps dragging me backward.

The urge to travel feels magnetic. Two of my favorite words are linked: departure time. And travel whets the emotions, turns upside down the memory bank, and the golden coins scatter.

Es posible amar y ser amado por un muerto? [pp. 258]

Quienes se van sin despedirse nunca se van del todo.

Vade Mecum I want the scissors to be sharp and the table perfectly level when you cut me out of my life and paste me in that book you always carry.

And we took off-whoosh-into the night. Through the clouds, we hurtled up into the sky. And this man farted. I will never forget it as long as I live. Not only was it the worst fart, it was the longest. Maybe, it was the position he was in, he had squeezed his ass all up. But he was kinda leanin over and pointing his ass up toward me. And it made the strangest noise. It was like cloth tearing.

Our soul is that part of our being which possesses intelligence, conscience, and memory—the real personality. Your body will die, but your soul lives on. And that soul has a "sixth sense"—the ability to believe, to have faith.

Son, can you play me a memory. I'm not really sure how it goes. It was sad and it was sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes.

We discussed the present, but what we really meant was our past. Both of us were living among the living, yet we didn't really belong with them- we were actually the dead, on stolen leave, accidental survivors who got left behind in life.

Some people don't like to remember," Vincent said. "Not even the good things?" "Especially not the good things.

I might like to believe that every day, every hour, every minute of every hour of every day with Henry was *not* the happiest time I ever knew. I might like to believe that I am remembering it that way only because the happiest time ever makes it a better story. Because that's all you have left after people are gone from you, some things and some stories.

It is all too apparent: wounds never heal, but rather, in a torpid state deep inside the medial temporal lobe of the brain, grief waits for fresh release.

Wherever we went, the soldiers came to kill us, and it was all our own country. It was ours already when the Wasichus made the treaty with Red Cloud, that said it would be ours is long as grass should grow and water flow. That was only eight winter's before, and they were chasing us now because we remembered and they forgot.

We do not ask to forget; we do not want the so-called consolations which time brings. Such an insult to the past, as forgetfulness would be, means that we have not risen to the possibilities of communion of spirit afforded us in the present.

Music is like a drug; when you hear it, you have a vision. And that vision can change over time or remain the same. You know, that first time you're in love and you hear a love song and every time you think about it you have that vision of your special someone. And then two years later, after you broke up, you're at the bar. And you hear that song and you go, "Son of a b**ch... I'll have a Jaeger."

Unless the mind can fix the reality of an event in the actual instant of its happening, judgment soon dwindles into a confusion between memory and argument.

We think very little of time present; we anticipate the future, as being too slow, and with a view to hasten it onward, we recall the past to stay it as too swiftly gone. We are so thoughtless, that we thus wander through the hours which are not here, regardless only of the moment that is actually our own.

Staying in the safe darkness of memory and yearning is easy. Going forward to the light of possibility takes courage.

Since I've retired, I sometimes not only don't know what day it is, or what month it is, I have trouble remembering what year it is. I can remember when I was six years old exactly what was happening, and I can't remember what happened yesterday.

What's nice about our tour is you can't remember your bad shots.

If you don't remember the past, you don't deserve to be remembered by the future.