Quotes About Memory

It seems, as one becomes older, That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose…

What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.

Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.

mixing Memory and desire

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then.

Of the past you can only see what is past, Not what is always present. That is what matters.

I thought that if I died To you, I who had only been a ghost to you, You might be able to find the road back To a time when you were real -

U- I ask you to forget nothing. To try to forget is to try to conceal. E- There are certainly things I should like to forget. U- And persons also. But you must not forget them. You must face them all, but meet them as strangers. E- Then I myself must also be a stranger. U- And to yourself as well...

There's no memory you can wrap in camphor But the moths will get in.

This is the use of memory: For liberation—not less of love but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country Begins as attachment to our own field of action

Ah, but we die to each other daily. What we know of other people Is only our memory of the moments During which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same Is a useful and convenient social convention Which must sometimes be broken.

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.

For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

April is the cruelest month - - - - mixing memory and desire - - -

Nessun maggior dolore Che di ricordar del tempo felice Nella miseria. . . .

The more rapacious, to take what I never had; The more unpardonable, to taunt me with not having it. Had you taken what I had, you would have left me at least a memory Of something to live upon.

La llum, el recordatori visible de la llum invisible.

Believe me, Michael: Those who flee from the past will always lose the race. I know this from experience. When you reach your goal, Your imagined paradise of success and grandeur, You will find your past failures waiting there to greet you.

All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death?

What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened.

A world that won't forget is a world drowned in its not forgetting. Do we want a world full of unedited memory? To be human is to be finite.

Never make your home in a place," the old man had said, too lazy in the spring warmth to do more than wag a finger. "Make a home for yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to furnish it—memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things.