Quotes About Memory

Eu trebuie s? m? gândesc mereu la moartea mamei, ca s? nu m? ia prin surprindere.

VISEZ CA MAMA MOARE! IMI LASA O CUTIE CU BATAILE INIMII EI.

The Holocaust is a central event in many people's lives, but it has also become a metaphor for our century. There cannot be an end to speaking and writing about it.

People who lose their parents when young are permanently in love with them.

I didn't see her die, but I did hear her one and only scream

Le passé en lui-même est un très mauvais matériau pour la littérature. La littérature est un présent brûlant, non au sens journalistique, mais comme une aspiration à transcender le temps en une présence éternelle

One night I heard one of the refugees say, "There are atrocities that one should not speak about." "Why?" wondered another refugee. "I can't explain it to you." "You have to speak about everything, so that everyone will know what they did to us." "I'm not going to argue with you." "If we won't be witnesses, who will bear witness?" "They won't believe us, anyway.

Había días en que las pesadillas lo perseguían, y por la mañana se levantaba y no recordaba nada. Ya había aprendido que un sueño que se olvida por la mañana no desaparece, se esconde y escarba en secreto, y que hay sueños olvidados que salen a la superficie en mitad del día.

The damage done by colonial powers to the heritage of conquered peoples is irreversible; yet racial memory is a collective storehouse that time and history cannot eradicate.

If we try to measure Now, we find it's always gone, has become part of the past.

We throw ourselves into the journey and when it's done, even while having learned that all experience involves the loss of something beloved, what is ledt in the residue of memory is love.

I have heard the most fantastical gossip about myself and each time I thought, "If only my life were that exciting, fun, outrageous, and sexy". Then again my memory wasn't so sharp when I took drugs. Some of what was said about me might be true. At worst it gave me jerk-off material.

Several of the girls at the party had had sex, something which sounded appealing but only if it could happen with blindfolds in a time warp plus amnesia

When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.

It struck me then how much the past - not just the past but history and family - was like the ocean tide. It was always the same ocean, but the waves made it fresh and new each time.

I watched the land for as long as I could, until it disappeared behind its shawl of mist, and until I had it fixed in my mind - unchanged, mysterious and beautiful

There's a spot over Lake Superior where migrating butterflies veer sharply. No one understood why they made such a quick turn at that specific place until a geologist finally made the connection: a mountain rose out of the water in that exact location thousands of years ago. These butterflies and their offspring can still remember a mass they've never seen,

Maybe that is the loneliest kind of memory: to be forever altered by an invisible kiss, a reminder of something long ago and crumbled, (…)

I spent most of my seventh grade summer dehydrated, green-tongued, and smelling like a Malaysian whorehouse.

This is the wonder of names. Like the press of a footprint in the snow: proof that someone has been there.

The walls were unadorned except for a tattered calendar that stopped at December 1941, when the world changed forever.

But now, as I recall my past works in order to write about them, the people from the past whom I had at last forgotten come to life again in my head, clamoring for attention, each one asserting his own individuality. I am at a loss. Each one is to me like a child of my own that I gave birth to and raised.

But lately tenpura-soba doesn't taste like it used to.

During the war there was a popular song called "Father, You Were Strong" ("Chichi yo, anata wa tsuyokatta"), but I want to say "Mother, You Were Strong.