Quotes About Memory

The strange and scattered pieces of ourselves we leave behind,

He steeled himself against whatever she'd come to say or ask or accuse, but also against the unhelpful and complicated tenderness he felt toward her. He should have called her. He should have thanked her for every kindness she'd shown him. He was about to apologize - for anything, for everything - when she gave him a little smirk, a private and sleepy-eyed expression he recalled with wonder and regret. Then she turned to shut the door, to lock it behind her. "Stranger," she said again. "Howdy.

Beneath this tree lies the body of John Oakhurst, who struck a streak of bad luck on the 23rd of November, 1850, and handed in his checks on the 7th of December, 1850.

Men kan nooit werkelijk een plek-van-vroeger terug vinden, of een voorbije staat van zijn opnieuw beleven. Er is ooit een toestand van volmaakt geluk geweest die men in de loop van de tijd onophoudelijk verliest, vergeet. Toch blijft men geloveen dat die ergens in het verleden verzonken is en hervonden kan worden.

In those days you did not really need anything, not even the rabbit's foot, but it was good to feel it in your pocket.

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it.

History isn't just something that's being us, it's also something that follows us.

Memory is like glass. A person who has died is still visible, very close. But we can no longer contact each other. Death is mute; it excludes conversations, only allows silence.

There is a special kind of beauty that manifests itself only in the faces of very old women. Their furrowed skin contains all the marks and memories imprinted by a life lived. Old women whose bodies the earth is crying out to embrace.

A full description of a person's life, however uneventful or uninteresting, fills a large folder.

New love might replace an earlier love, but the old love is always there, no matter what. You live your life on two levels, probably to avoid falling through without a trace if a hole appears in one of them.

Recalling the dream was like trying to follow a ship into fog.

There is a special kind of beauty that manifests itself only in the faces of really old women. Their furrowed skin contains all the marks and memories imprinted by a life lived. Old women whose bodies the earth is crying out to embrace. I

The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory.

When it is said that an object occupies a large space in the soul or even that it fills it entirely, we ought to understand by this simply that its image has altered the shade of a thousand perceptions or memories, and that in this sense it pervades them, although it does not itself come into view.

The question is precisely to know whether the past has ceased to exist, or ceased to be useful...

Duration is] the form which the succession of our conscious states assumes when our ego lets itself live, when it refrains from separating its present state from its former state.

One of the tragedies of our life is that we keep forgetting who we are

As long as we keep dividing our lives between events and people we would like to remember and those we would rather forget, we cannot claim the fullness of our beings as a gift of God to be grateful for.

In 1970 I felt so lonely that I could not give; now I feel so joyful that giving seems easy. I hope that the day will come when the memory of my present joy will give me the strength to keep giving even when loneliness gnaws at my heart.

When one thinks what one leaves in the world when one dies, Only silence is strong, - all the rest is but lies.

On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend's life also, in our own, to the world.

Our moments of inspiration are not lost though we have no particular poem to show for them; for those experiences have left an indelible impression, and we are ever and anon reminded of them.

Nations are possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave.