Quotes About Memory

D'murr no longer needed to concern himself with the mundane affairs of humans, so trivial were they, so limited and short-sighted: political machinations, populations milling about like ants in a disturbed hill, lives flickering bright and dull like sparks from a campfire. His former life was only a vague and fading memory, without specific names or faces. He saw images, but ignored them. He could never go back to what he had been.

Every memory has a trigger. —Mentat observation

Each sentient life requires a place of extreme serenity, where the mind may roam afterward in memory and to which the body longs to return.

Each human being is a time machine. —Zensunni Fire Poetry

You say that we must learn from the past. But I—I fear the past, for I have been there, and I have no desire to return.

The heartbeat steadied, their minds opened Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and the flow began, like a torrent through an open dam. Lobia poured her life into Anirul, transferring memories, aspects of personality, every bit of data contained in her long life. One day, Anirul herself would pass the information to another, younger Sister. In this manner, the Sisterhood's collective memory was amassed and made potentially available to all Bene Gesserit.

Memory and History are two sides of the same coin. In time, however, History tends to slant itself toward a favorable impression of events, while Memory is doomed to preserve the worst aspects.

Beneath a world—in its rocks, its dirt and sedimentary overlays—there you find the planet's memory, the complete analog of its existence, its ecological memory. —PARDOT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer

I am a people watcher and I have a very good memory.

After the burial, the hares of the Long Patrol sang a short verse as a farewell to their comrade. "Now the sunny glades are silent, where our fallen warriors lay. As in memory we treasure all the brave who marched away. Through the dusty seasons rolling, o'er our passing out parade, how we laughed and sang together, Oh your face 'twill never fade.

Sometimes, I get ideas from dreams. Often, my stories are based on my adventures that I, or my friends, have actually lived.

The last great escape. I was done gambling, done betting on a ship that would never come in. I would cash in my chips while I was ahead. I didn't want to suffer the growing old, didn't want to wait until my memory went. It was all so tiresome. I would just go out in a blaze of glory before the parasites of sadness got at me and made me bitter. After that's the American way: take your own life before everything else takes it from you.

Sooner or later, every last echo fades. Even the loudest thunder in the deepest valley.

Most of the time, we don't even realize we've live through something worth commemorating until long after it's already ended.

The only way the dead live on is through the people they leave behind.

I mean, when the British burned down the White House in the war of 1812, did we plant a Tree of Remembrance in the ashes, or did we get busy rebuilding?

When you died, you were supposed to live on in the memories of others. That's what I'd always been told. Didn't matter what you believed, which religion you subscribed to, what god you worshipped. The simple fact was that none of us knew what lay beyond. Immortality and eternal life? The only sure shot at that was the memories of those you left behind - your friends and family...

The most common emotional defense is avoidance (an ineffective coping skill for any stressor) as expressed through denial (e.g., That wasn't really bad, I barely remember it).

That's the thing with the dead, they get to say nothing, forever.

Stop thinking about the fact that the world has turned against you and the irony is you shouldn't even be here. You should have died sixty years ago. They should have left you in that block of ice. They should have left you as a memory, as a symbol of peace and freedom. Instead of what they're turning you into: a war criminal. A refuregee.

The moments of beauty, the moments when you feel blessed, are only moments; but memory and imagination, treasuring them, can string them together... Everything else passes away; that which you love remains.

EVERYTHING given in this life is given as a gift. When it's gone, it's a good memory to be grateful for. It was never really yours.

What we do not wish to remember we sometimes hide. That which we hide long enough is sometimes forgotten altogether, even if it never forgets itself.

We elicit from the world what we project into the world; but what you project is based upon what happened to you as a child.