Quotes About Memory

She could remember the sensation of flying through the air, which seemed to last an eternity. She could remember feeling reckless, happy, and doomed, all at the same time. She could remember thinking, I am above gravity.

Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They're the last to go. And then once you've forgotten enough, you love someone else.

The score had stood so long, it had burned into the monitor.

This is what time travel is. It's looking at a person, and seeing them in the present and the past, concurrently

The work was the thing that lasted, but the work only lasted if people knew it existed.

EMILY MARKS DAEDALUS 1875-1909 SHE HATH DIED OF DYSENTERY

We had been there about four days when she said, "It feels like last year was a dream," she said. "It feels like I had a fever, and the fever has finally broken." "I'm glad," I said. "Still," she said, "sometimes I miss the fever.

Like Sam, I once lived in a house up a hill from the Happy Foot Sad Foot sign. The Happy Foot Sad Foot sign was taken down in 2019, but I am told you can still find its remains in a gift shop somewhere in Silver Lake.

This is what time travel is. It's looking at a person and seeing them in the present and past, concurrently.

It's just an absence seizure. I used to have them a lot as a kid. I rarely have them as an adult except when I'm unusually stressed." "You should see a doctor.

Gabrielle Zevin

In the end, we are collected works. He has read enough to know there are no collections where each story is perfect. Some hits. Some misses. If you're lucky, a standout. And in the end, people only really remember the standouts anyway, and they don't remember those for very long. No

She was pretty and smart, which makes her death a tragedy.

He writes a paragraph a day. A paragraph for Maya. It isn't much, but it's what he has left to give. He

And I and him, and him and me. (I will always remember that he tasted like cigarettes and something passing sweet, which I could not quite identify.) Andiandhimandhimandme. (And so on.)

He would know her handwriting anywhere.

Los escritores no se acuerdan de todo lo que escriben. Sería imposible.

The Late Bloomer by Leon Friedman. The book is familiar to A.J., but he's not sure why. He opens the galley and a business card falls out: amelia loman, knightley press. Yes, he remembers now. Of course, he has encountered Amelia Loman in the years since that awkward first meeting.

Though he can't remember how he got there or having taken off his clothes, A.J. wakes in bed wearing only his underwear. He remembers that Harvey Rhodes is dead; he remembers being an asshole to the comely Knightley Press rep; he remembers throwing the vindaloo across the room; he remembers the first glass of wine and the toast to Tamerlane. After that, oblivion. From his point of view, the evening had been a triumph.

What kind of pipe is that?" Maya asks. "I have never seen a pipe like that before." A.J.'s first impulse is to cover Maya's eyes, but then he laughs. Had Friedman actually traveled on the plane with drug paraphernalia? He turns to his daughter. "Maya, do you remember when we read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland last year?

You forget all of it anyway. . . You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. . . You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They're the last to go. And then once you've forgotten enough, you love someone else.

I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures. ...We tell the story to get them back, to capture the traces of footfalls through the snow.

Mostly I couldn't bear... the paltry notion that memory was all that eternal life really meant, and I spent too much time wondering where people got the fortitude or delusion to keep on moving past the static dead.

All of this seems as though it were yesterday, or forever ago, in that crevasse between space and time that stays fixed in the imagination. I remember it all because I remember it all. In crisis with someone you love, the dialogue is as burnished as a scar on a tree.