Quotes About Memory

Loci. Latin for 'places.' Mnemonic device for managing memory. Simonides, Cicero, Quintilian all

There are people I stand near a single time and skirt forevermore.

Why do you hate me?" "I have no emotion about you at all, Mac. I take care of my own. You are not my own." He moved past me, pressed his palm to the door, and stood waiting for me to exit. "Barrons wants you to see your parents so as you go about your business you will remember they are here. With me." "Lovely," I muttered. "I suffer them to live, against my better judgment, as a favor to Barrons. He's running out of favors. Remember that.

I relieved you of what you considered a despicable stain in your mind. Best fucking night of my existence." He laughs and shakes his head. "And you couldn't get rid of it fast enough. I didn't want to hide the memory from you. I wanted to cram it down your goddamn throat. I wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked.

I didn't re-create the abbey from my recollection, but from the earth's elephantine memory.

wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked. Well, Ms. Lane, you've got your precious memory back. Will you throw me away now?

She'll remember, when there's nothing else left of me worth remembering.

I'll never forgive. I'll never forget.

One thing Genevieve had learned was that the people you loved were never lost. They became a permanent part of your soul.

Granana doesn't understand what the big deal is. She didn't cry at Olivia's funeral, and I doubt she even remembers Olivia's name. Granana lost, like, ninety-two million kids in childbirth. All of her brothers died in the war. She survived the Depression by stealing radish bulbs from her neighbors' garden, and fishing the elms for pigeons. Dad likes to remind us of this in a grave voice, as if it explained her jaundiced pitilessness: "Boys. Your grandmother ate pigeons.

Somethings you know right away to be final- when you lose your last baby tooth...Other times, you have to work out the milestone via subtraction, a math you do to assign significance, like when I figured out that I'd just blown through my last-ever wednesday with Mom on the day after she died.

I had to explain to him Mom's death, which was always hard to do. It felt like killing her again.

I say nothing. But I keep thinking: It's been two years. What if all the Olivia-ness has already seeped out of her and evaporated into the violet welter of clouds? Evaporated, and rained down, and evaporated, and rained down. Olivia slicking over all the rivers and trees and dirty cities in the world. So that now there is only silt, and our stupid, salt-diluted longing. And nothing left of our sister to find.

The past, with its monstrous depth and span, reached toward him, demanding an understanding that he simply could not give it.

i haf the sownd of more words butt i coud not remember the shaps of the letters.

Una volta Beverly ha letto un articolo di una rivista scientifica sulla bioluminescenza, il bagliore naturale emesso da organismi come le lucciole e le meduse, ma sa che anche i morti emanano una strana luce, un fosforo che può danneggiare in modo permanente gli occhi dei vivi. Necroluminescenza – la luce degli scomparsi. Un pensiero retrospettivo prodotto dal corpo del defunto. I tuoi fallimenti retroilluminati dalla morte dei tuoi cari.

You could not survive your death, could you? It survived with you.

The past, with its monstrous depth and span, reached toward him, demanding an understanding that he simply could not give it. His mind was too young and too narrow to withstand the onrush of her life.

Increasingly, Sawtooth's own memories are a loud bright muddle, like opening the door on a party full of strangers. He lies awake at night, limping down the long corridors of his memory, trying to find the girl's hands, ...

His words hung around, too, leaving their brain stain on the air.

Her name in a stranger's mouth was a resurrection; however briefly, she was alive with him again again. Even that little shove could roll back the tomb.

She's dead. She's dead.

Now her body was the only place where the memories were preserved.

Any place, then, can become a cemetery. All it takes is your body. It's not fair, I think, and I get this petulant wish for ugly flowers and mourners, my mother's old familiar grief. Somebody I love to tend my future grave. Probably this is the wrong thing to be wishing for.