Quotes About Memory

Perhaps it is the power of memory that gives rise to the power of imagination.)

Perhaps because I was just a child, I didn't perceive the slightest specter of our dark militarism.

I had slept like a log, and I couldn't remember anything frightening from my dreams. This seemed so strange to me that I asked my brother how it could have come about. "If you shut your eyes to a frightening sight, you end up being frightened. If you look at everything straight on, there is nothing to be afraid of." Looking back on that excursion now, I realize that it must have been horrifying for my brother too. It had been an expedition to conquer fear.

In the foreseeable future, I will be a dead person. I want to remind you that dead people are people too. There are good dead people and bad dead people. Some of my best friends are dead people. Dead people have fought in every war." Then

So much past inside my present. —Feist

I'm absolutely certain." Say something enough and it not only sounds true, it becomes memory.

El pasado ha de pasar, no para caer en el olvido, sino para hallar su lugar en el único contexto que le conviene: la historia. Sólo un pasado historizado puede, en efecto, informar válidamente al presente, mientras que un pasado mantenido permanentemente actual no puede sino ser fuente de polémicas partidarias y de ambigüedades.

It may be said that his wit shines at the expense of his memory.

You could measure how long I would remember that moment by the redness of my cheeks. My father saw that I liked projects and taught me how to make lamps out of Chianti bottles.

Autobiographical memory: Memory across the lifespan for both specific events and self-related information.

We cannot relive Apollo, but we can preserve its legacy; we can continue to tell the story.

However, living in Tel Aviv, he was spared the fate of equivalent figures in English culture, an endless round of arts programmes where those who have known the famous are publicly debriefed of their memories, knowing as their own dusk falls that they will be remembered only for remembering someone else.

Those who have known the famous are publicly debriefed of their memories, knowing as their own dusk falls that they will only be remembered for remembering someone else.

Memory is so subjective. We all remember in a visceral, emotional way, and so even if we agree on the facts—what was said, what happened where and when—what we take away and store from a moment, what we feel about it, can vary radically.

She had seen this man before, in a daydream. In a nightmare.

War stuttered, repeated its sentences, forgot its lessons, over and over.

Words have a way of coming back to haunt us.

Gabe!" she calls. "Dr. Gabe." He looks at her blankly "Don't you know me? You're my OB-GYN." Gabe's eyes move instinctively from her face to her crotch. He stares between her legs for a beat. His face lights up in recognition, as if he has X-ray vision. "Joanne! Sure . . . Joanne. How are you?" Both Joanne and I break up. Gabe blushes. "I see so many women," he says, making it worse.

Well, I did go. To Auschwitz. And the warning was correct. Not because I was not permitted to describe what I had seen, but because I could not describe what I had seen. The piles of glasses. The piles of shoes. The piles of bones. The piles of human hair. I thought that I had never seen the kind of thinking that did this, that I had never seen this kind of reality. Not in movies, not in theater. Yet it was real.

Communards died here, in 1871. They fought all night among the gravestones, then surrendered at dawn. The soldiers put them against this wall, shot them, and buried them in a common grave." "Are you a communist, Ilya? In your heart?" "Oh yes. Aren't you?" "No. I just want to live my life, to be left alone." There was a moment's silence, then Ilya said, "Now, a matter of some delicacy." They turned

It made her—a bizarre trick—long for a past that was still in the future.

They don't know what it's like. Inside. For them it's only fun, even though I tell them it isn't. You see I don't delete. Anything. Ever.

Seven thousand Jews had been collected and taken away to die, but we were not among them.

After a moment, there was a quiet splash, and the mourners said together, "Remember, God, that we are of dust." One by one they stepped to the rail, where they released handfuls of sand—the sand Josef's father had told him to take from the sandbox. Josef joined his father at the rail, and they scattered their sand in the sea.