Quotes About Memory

There isn't a thing I can imagine having missed that I don't quite ache to miss again; and it remains at all events an odd stroke that, having of old most felt the thrill of the place in its mighty muchness, I have lived to adore it backward for its sweet simplicity.

Haven't you kept anything? Hyacinth went on, without heeding this challenge. She looked at him a moment. I have kept you!

Of a slim-waisted deer-swift boy... My tongue remembers and is young.

Au fond, les gens ne lisent pas ; ou, s'ils lisent, ils ne comprennent pas ; ou, s'ils comprennent, ils oublient.

There are times when I myself no longer know whether I said and did the things I report or whether I dreamed them up. Anyway, I always dream true. If I lie a bit now and then it is mainly in the interest of truth.

There is an ordinary kind of forgetting and a special kind: the latter is due, more than likely to the vice of living in two worlds at once. One of the consequences of this tendency is that you live everything out innumerable times. Worse, whatever you succeed in transmitting to paper seems but an infinitesimal fraction of what you've already written in your head.

She wouldn't remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever.

arka planda,zay?f anlar?nda bakt???n bir kartpostal gibi.Böylece seni her zaman orada beklediÄŸini hayal edebilirdin;deÄŸiÅŸmemiÅŸ,bozulmam??,....

Ai iubit-o candva,dar erai atat de satisf?cut c? poÈ›i iubi È™i pe altcineva în afar? de tine,încat ai uitat aproape imediat de ea.Te-ai urm?rit pe tine iubind.Ai purtat-o prin toate astea numai ca tu s? poÈ›i simÈ›i iar??i.

But that was a long time ago and since then a crab has been gnawing at my vitals. All this began in the Metro (first-class) with the phrase - l'homme que j'etais, je ne le suis plus.

Y entonces llega un momento en el que, de repente, todo parece del revés. Vivimos en la mente, en ideas, en fragmentos. Ya no nos embebemos más en la salvaje y lejana música de las calles: solamente recordamos.

It seems to me that everything dates from that aborted affair.

Y cuando hayamos atravesado todas las calles y solo quede el polvo de nuestros pies frenéticos, todavía quedaría el recuerdo de tu ancha cara llena, tan blanca, y la gruesa boca con frescos labios entreabiertos, los dientes blancos como la tiza y todos ellos perfectos, y en ese recuerdo nada puede cambiar en modo alguno, porque esto, como tus dientes, es perfecto...

P)assages of those books I once wrote in my head came back, like the curled edges of a dream which refuse to flatten out. They would always be flapping there, those curled edges... flapping from the cornices of those dingy shit-brown shanties, those slat-faced saloons, those foul rescue and shelter places where the bleary-eyed, codfish-faced bums hung about like lazy flies, and O God, how miserable they looked, how wasted, how blenched, how withered and hollowed out!

I got to reminiscing about the past. I thought of all the things I might have said and done, which I hadn't sad or done.

The reason why it is difficult to tell it is because I remember too much.

I came away with pieces of you sticking to me

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Great men die and are forgotten, Wise men speak; their words of wisdom Perish in the ears that hear them, Do not reach the generations That, as yet unborn, are waiting In the great, mysterious darkness Of the speechless days that shall be!

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

O, never from the memory of my heart Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, Taught me how mortals are immortalized; How grateful am I for that patient care All my life long my language shall declare.

The situation has provided a cue; this cue has given the expert access to information stored in memory, and the information provides the answer. Intuition is nothing more and nothing less than recognition.